


We're A Storm In Somebody Else's Teacup

by paperclipbitch



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Attempted Murder, F/M, Gen, Guilt, London, M/M, Minor Character Death, Plotty, Protective Siblings, Slow Burn, Violence, murder unicorns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 13:17:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 89,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4350257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/pseuds/paperclipbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Merlin and Morgana meet at a support group for people with superpowers, and accidentally start a chain of events that nearly destroys the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ in 2009.
> 
> **Author's note you should read:** I honestly haven't looked at this for about 4-5 years, but it's the longest thing I ever wrote, and therefore should probably be on AO3 in case people would still like to read it without clicking repeatedly through LJ entries. It was written before series 2 of _Merlin_ , and therefore contains only characters/characterisation/etc from series 1. 
> 
> **Additional author's note:** I've left this as it is. I stand by most of it, though as a 25-year-old looking over things I wrote as an 18-year-old there are some things I'd express better/more cleanly. But I'm not rewriting nearly 90k of fic. So, I guess, in some places, forgive my youthful awkwardness? Also: I once saw a criticism of this fic on tumblr, and I'd like to specifically say that I was recovering from a nervous breakdown at the time of writing this, and would never want to imply that people with mental health problems are either evil or dangerous.
> 
> Right, have at it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gwen’s passive-aggressive revenge leads to, amongst other things, Merlin making a new friend.

_I don’t want to make it rain;_  
I just want to make it simple.  
\- Rufus Wainwright

Merlin meets Morgana Le Fay at a support group for People With Freaky Unnatural Powers. Alright, it’s not technically called that, but it might as well be.

It’s all Gwen’s fault. Merlin had decided that it was probably about time to sit her down and tell her all about his apparently magical powers, which had, at the time, gone better than expected (“Oh my God, you are _actually_ Peter Petrelli.”). However, a couple of days later she’d realised that he’d been hiding his powers from her for about eighteen years – including the three years she’d been _living with him_ – and became less amused about the whole thing (“But you don’t keep secrets from me! You told me you were gay when we were, like, seven, and at the time we weren’t even entirely sure what _gay_ meant!”). She woke him up in the middle of the night with lots of sheets of paper and told him very firmly that he needed somewhere to go and talk to other people like him about how he felt about being able to make a cup of tea without actually touching anything (“I don’t feel _anything_ about it! It’s just… something I can do!”).

Which is how Merlin is here, drinking a cup of tea that he doesn’t really want to be drinking and eating a Hob Nob which is, admittedly, very nice; but he _does_ have Hob Nobs at home unless Gwen has eaten those in revenge too, so really there is no reason for him to be here. And he _was_ going to tell Gwen this when he realised it was her quiet, passive-aggressive revenge for not telling her about his abilities; and if he obediently attends the support group she’s suggested then maybe she won’t find out that Will has _always_ known. Gwen quite likes Will; or, as she told Merlin once a long time ago, she has made the conscious decision to try and like him because if Merlin is going to keep getting drunk and making the inadvisable decision to sleep with Will, swiftly following this up by remembering that he isn’t in love with Will and sneaking like a bastard out of the flat in the early hours of the morning, inevitably leaving Gwen with the responsibility of pouring the poor guy into a taxi to the train station, then the least she can do is not actively hate him while all this is going on. She might change her mind about that, though, if she finds out that Will has always been perfectly aware of the existence of Merlin’s Freaky Unnatural Powers. 

Deciding he might as well make the best of it, and also so he can collect ammunition for when he tells Gwen later that he does not need to attend a support group at _all_ , Merlin starts looking around at the others. Part of him is wondering exactly what they can _do_ ; Gwen was the one who googled people with magical powers and managed to get through all the Harry Potter fansites to get real results. Merlin has always assumed that he’s not unique, but has never cared enough to actually go and find out what that actually means.

A pale young woman with unsettlingly bright blue eyes catches his gaze and her dark red mouth curls into a faintly predatory smile. Merlin smiles back uncertainly, trying to squash away the little voice in his mind that’s suggesting she might _steal his soul_ and then _eat it_ , because while that’s actually a horrible possibility he doesn’t want to come across as _paranoid_.

“You don’t want to get caught up in Nimueh’s drama,” a lilting voice beside him says. “She has power over life and death and she _never_ lets you forget it.”

Merlin turns to find a woman about his age sitting beside him. She looks bored, winding a curl of hair around her finger.

“Power over life and death?” Merlin repeats, a little blankly.

“Well, yes, it is impressive,” the woman allows, “But there’s no need for her to be such a _bitch_ about it. Really, as superhuman abilities go, it’s more _creepy_ than _cool_.”

Merlin can’t help smiling at just how surreal all this is.

“So what can you do?” he asks, a slight teasing note in his voice.

She flicks her hair back over her shoulders. “I can see the future,” she replies, with a proud haughtiness that implies she thinks that’s _way_ more exciting than controlling life itself. And it is, Merlin has to admit, pretty damn awesome. “What about you?” There’s definitely a challenge there, and Merlin resists the urge to laugh because somehow he didn’t think having magical powers would result in a competition but, like most things in life, there’s probably some kind of utterly incomprehensible hierarchy.

“I can move stuff with my mind,” he offers, with a slightly sheepish shrug.

She raises an eyebrow. “You’re teleki-”

“I _move stuff with my mind_ ,” Merlin interrupts quickly. “If words like _telekinetic_ get thrown about I start feeling like I live in a comic book and then I overthink everything and then I get a migraine.”

The other woman laughs, holding out a hand. “I’m Morgana,” she offers. 

Merlin takes it; her fingers are cold but her grip is surprisingly firm. “I’m Merlin,” he tells her, “Because my mother has no sense of humour. Or possibly too much of one.”

Morgana smiles. Merlin thinks she’s possibly the most dignified person he’s ever met; dressed in a deep purple velvet shirt and dark jeans, posture so perfect it makes Merlin’s back ache in sympathy.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” she informs him. “Did you suddenly have a whim to join a team of superheroes or something?”

“Is that going to happen?” Merlin asks, panicked. “Because I think I might be too skinny for lycra.”

Morgana gives him a critical look, tipping her head to one side. “You might be,” she agrees. “But I wouldn’t worry. Mostly people just seem to sit around bitching and occasionally inadvertently destroying items of furniture.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so,” Merlin begins, “You don’t really seem to want to be here.”

“My brother insists I go,” Morgana replies, in a long-suffering tone. “I don’t know exactly what he thinks coming here once a fortnight will actually achieve, but he’s been remarkably accepting about the whole _prophecy_ thing so I humour him.”

“My best friend forced me to go,” Merlin tells her. “She’s getting her revenge because I hid my power from her for over a decade.”

“That’s impressive,” Morgana says. “Arthur figured it out about a week after I moved in.” When Merlin frowns slightly, she adds: “Oh, he’s my step-brother. Otherwise he’d probably have unsettling abnormal powers too.”

Merlin takes this to mean that no one has come up with any sensible medical term for _I was inexplicably born with the ability to do random shit that most people can’t do outside of things published by Marvel_ , and is somehow relieved about that.

“So I suppose you know everyone else,” he says carefully, because the room seems to be filling up and Merlin is suddenly attacked with anxiety and an awkward feeling of inferiority.

Morgana nods, shifting a little closer, and begins to point people out to him. “That man over there – the one who looks like he could crush your head between his hands without any effort – he can animate inanimate objects. He calls himself _Valiant_ , and is as much of a twat as that implies.” Merlin can’t help smiling. “And Nimueh you already know – and no, that isn’t her real name – and _that’s_ Edwin.”

Edwin looks perfectly fine in profile, until he turns and Merlin realises that the other side of his face is horrifically burned. 

“What can he do?” he asks.

“Fire, of course,” Morgana replies. “And he has these weird beetle things that he can use to make people ill.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow.

“ _Exactly_ ,” Morgana says, disdain in her tone.

Merlin can’t help wondering if having Random Magical Abilities makes you a psychopath, or if it’s just one of those coincidence things. He is going to tell Gwen all about this when he gets home, though, because however hurt she is – and yes, he gets that too, but it wasn’t something that was _easy_ to drop into conversation, because God knows he tried – she can’t seriously force him to socialise with mad people who can kill him in horrible creative ways. Well, probably anyway. He’s underestimated Gwen before, and regretted it.

“Are there any people here who have powers that _don’t_ result in general death and destruction?” Merlin asks as carefully and tactfully as he can manage.

Morgana looks thoughtful. “Other than you and me, you mean?”

Merlin shrugs with a hint of a smile. Morgana bites her lower lip for a moment, clearly considering something, and then apparently reaches a decision. “Right,” she says. “Want to go and get a coffee?”

“If Gwen finds out I skipped the meeting-”

“We’ll have our own support group,” Morgana says briskly. “Please say yes, Valiant The Twat tried to hit on me last time and I am _this close_ to doing something painful and irreversible to him.”

“I thought you said your powers _didn’t_ involve death and destruction,” Merlin murmurs, but he’s sold anyway.

^

“I dreamt my entire GCSE history paper,” Morgana grins, with a trace of smugness that she will apparently have forever, though Merlin can’t exactly blame her. “Which was the one I didn’t bother revising for, and I got full marks anyway. Arthur didn’t speak to me for a _week_ after the results came through.” She leans forward with a conspirital air. “He _failed_ GCSE history, had to retake the next year.”

Merlin has no idea why it would be important that Arthur failed history, but he’s kind of enjoying the way Morgana is speaking to him with casual confidence, as though they’ve known each other far longer than an hour and a half.

“I _never_ used my powers at school,” Merlin tells her. “I mean, I just used to sit really still and hope I didn’t make anything fall over and hurt anyone.”

Morgana raises an enquiring eyebrow as she leans over for another brownie from the plate they’re currently demolishing. Merlin has never been to this café in his life but the waitresses all know Morgana and immediately provided them with tea and chocolatey things without her even needing to say anything. All the baristas in Merlin’s local Starbucks know his coffee order off by heart (black, extra hot, extra shot of espresso) but it isn’t quite _this_ cool. Possibly, it’s just an indication that he’s got an out of control caffeine addiction.

“I may have slightly brained my friend with a clock,” Merlin confesses. “I mean, we were about seven and I wanted to go home so I was staring at the clock, you know, and it fell off the wall and Will used to sit underneath it so…”

Morgana grimaces.

“He only needed about six stitches,” Merlin adds quickly. “And I explained the whole thing to him when he wasn’t concussed any more, and he was so excited about being friends with a superhero he totally forgot about the part where I’d nearly killed him.”

“I wish Arthur had reacted like that,” Morgana sighs, sucking a trace of chocolate off her thumb. “He worked out the _precognitive powers_ bit for himself, which, frankly, was kind of a shock because Arthur makes inanimate objects look perceptive a lot of the time, but then he spent about two months avoiding me and calling me his _freaky stepsister_ to all his friends.” She smiles reminiscently. “Of course, he liked me again when I found out which of his mates was going to steal his girlfriend and when, so I suppose it could have been worse.”

“So, he’s… supportive?” Merlin asks. 

“Well, he hasn’t had me burnt at the stake, if that’s what you mean.” Morgana rolls her eyes. “He doesn’t really care, just as long as it doesn’t get into the papers and make the family look abnormal in the eyes of the public.” 

Merlin would have thought that People With Freaky Unnatural Abilities would have made the headlines years ago, but although all the evidence is there on the internet and even in proper books that you can get in most branches of Waterstone’s and everything, no journalists have pounced on the story. Apparently, the world is just determinedly ignoring them, which is both a relief and kind of disappointing. Not that Merlin wants to get a mask and a secret identity, and he definitely doesn’t want to be pressganged into doing so-called _heroic_ deeds, but some form of recognition would be nice.

“Why would it make the papers?” he asks anyway.

“It comes from being the stepdaughter of a billionaire,” Morgana shrugs, as though this is a perfectly normal thing to say. Merlin wonders if it’s weird that it’s _that_ he finds shocking, not the _dreaming the future_ part.

“Stepdaughter of a billionaire?” he repeats blankly.

Morgana nods. “Keep up,” she says, with a hint of a smile. “I’m sure I mentioned Uther.”

“Uther?”

“Uther Pendragon. My stepfather.”

Merlin really _is_ going to come up with something sensible to say in a minute. “ _Uther Pendragon_? As in _Pendragon Industries_?”

Morgana looks as though she’s had to sit through this conversation a few too many times. “Yes,” she says patiently.

“ _That_ Uther Pendragon?”

“ _Yes_ , Merlin.” Morgana rolls her eyes.

Merlin feels faintly bemused. “Uther Pendragon, my boss?”

Morgana drops her brownie. “ _What_?”

^

When Morgana finally makes it home, Arthur is draped across the obnoxiously large leather sofa in front of the obnoxiously large plasma screen – the furnishings in their flat tend to follow a certain pattern – looking simultaneously gorgeous and, well _obnoxious_. He makes it onto all sorts of lists of eligible bachelors, what with his irritatingly _devastating_ good looks and ridiculous amounts of money, and Morgana has several friends who cut the photographs out of _OK!_ the last time Arthur felt like draping himself across some fireplaces in a home that looked nothing like this apartment, though of course they deny it. She got over having a stepbrother who looked like _that_ years ago, though; it was that or spend her life in faintly incestuous torment.

“Your meeting finished two hours ago,” Arthur points out with a trace of gleefulness in his tone.

“Shall we just get Uther to electronically tag me, Athur?” Morgana asks with false sweetness, throwing herself into an armchair.

Arthur glances up from the print-outs he has spread out on his lap to offer her a look that has a trace of concern in it. “That Valiant guy didn’t try anything did he? Because I can arrange to have him killed.”

It’s at times like this Morgana remembers that she really does love her brother, somewhere underneath it all. “I’m perfectly capable of arranging to have him killed myself, Arthur,” she points out lightly, flicking imaginary lint off her jeans. “But I actually ditched the meeting.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow. “You haven’t ditched the meeting since the last Harrods sale,” he says, voice rich with suspicion. 

Morgana rests her feet on the coffee table, sighing. She and Arthur, in a vague attempt to be grown-up a few years ago, bought a whole load of actual Coffee Table Books which they rotate on a monthly basis. Morgana is reasonably certain that none of the books have ever been opened; the one currently carefully angled on the glossy surface is apparently full of photographs of _elephants_. Neither she nor Arthur have ever expressed that much interest in elephants before, and Morgana makes a mental note to remember this as an important lesson: going on Amazon while drunk is not ever going to end well.

“The shoes I got were worth it though,” she says, shrugging.

Arthur sighs, though there’s the slightest trace of worry in his eyes beneath the frustration. He knows her way too well; always has.

“ _Morgana_.”

She sighs. “You know that everyone who goes to the meeting is either a megalomaniac or a bastard, or a megalomaniacal bastard, and I finally met someone who wasn’t. So I went and had a coffee with him instead.”

Arthur arches an eyebrow significantly.

“He’s gay,” Morgana informs him calmly. It wasn’t something Merlin dropped into the conversation, but Morgana read between the lines anyway.

She watches Arthur’s reaction carefully; around the time Arthur figured out she could see the future, Morgana privately figured out that he was _gay_. Arthur doesn’t seem to have noticed yet, but this can’t be taken as evidence against her theory; he really _isn’t_ all that perceptive a lot of the time. 

But Arthur just shrugs, eyes still on his paperwork, and Morgana mentally sighs because she has spent about the last ten years trying to get Arthur to _figure out_ he’s in the closet, let alone get him out of it. She starts feeling ridiculously like an _Avenue Q_ puppet – she and Arthur took Uther one evening because it’s their job to make sure he keeps a certain degree of humility before he _actually_ attempts to liquidise all companies ever and take over the _entire world_ – though she thinks it would lack, well, subtlety if she started singing _If You Were Gay_.

“And he works for Pendragon Industries,” she adds.

Arthur actually looks genuinely interested now; _workaholic_ doesn’t even begin to cover it. “Can he see the future too?” he asks.

“No,” Morgana replies. “I’d probably be hating him and plotting his doom if he had the same ability as me.” When Arthur frowns, she shrugs and adds: “It’s what everyone else at the so-called _Support Group_ does. It’s more a _Temporary Truce_ than anything else.”

Arthur’s lips curl into a soft smile. “You weird magical freaks.”

Morgana fake-glares at him. “Careful, or I’ll foresee your death and forget to mention it,” she says. It’s been her favourite threat since they were eleven, and Arthur rolls his eyes because they both know Morgana would do _anything_ to save his life, should it come to it.

“So what does this guy do?” Arthur asks, after a moment. 

“He’s in the PR department,” Morgana replies. “He’s nice; you wouldn’t like him.”

Arthur raises both eyebrows at her. “Are you casting aspersions on my character, Morgana?”

Morgana shrugs, and smiles at him. “It’s common knowledge that you’re a complete and utter b-”

She’s cut off by a buzzing sound coming from the direction of the door; Arthur practically bounces off the sofa, scattering bits of paper everywhere as he heads out of the living room to answer the intercom. Morgana sighs, and gathers everything back together as best she can, piling the printouts neatly beside the Random Inadvisable Elephant Book just as Arthur comes back in.

“That’s Lance,” he says, “Will you be all right here by yourself?”

“Yes.” Morgana smiles at him, but adds a little weariness into her tone. “Well, I _might_ be, because of course I can’t _function_ without you around, darling Arthur.”

He shakes his head at her, padding out of the room again to find some shoes, so Morgana goes to answer the door. She’s known Lance nearly as long as she’s known Arthur; the boys met about six months after her mother married Uther, and have been practically inseparable ever since. And even after all that time, Morgana honestly can’t tell if Lance is just as charmingly oblivious as Arthur, or if he’s just too polite to mention the fact that Arthur is evidently _madly in love with him_. Or maybe Morgana’s the only one to notice this fact, having a small degree of subjectivity. 

It’s sort of a pity, because Lance is fucking _gorgeous_. Still, Morgana got over dating Arthur’s friends when she was about sixteen; she really only did it because it pissed Arthur off. 

“Have fun, boys,” she calls down the corridor after them, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

They’ve known each other and her for far too long, because both Arthur and Lance turn around with matching faintly incredulous expressions.

“ _Now_ who’s casting aspersions?” she demands, laughing, before closing the door.

^

Gwen refuses to be _entirely_ penitent about making Merlin go to meeting full of people with Creepy Murderous Abilities because, as she points out to Merlin, he met Morgana there, who he is clearly crazy about (“Merlin, have you started batting for the _other_ other team?” “I’ve never batted for any teams in my life; that’s what made my life in secondary school so utterly _crap_ ”). It’s lovely that Gwen is apparently so secure, because she never bitches about him suddenly having another close female friend; and if she’s jealous then she does it quietly and somewhere far away (though, as she reminds Merlin, she has so much blackmail material on him that he’ll have to be her adoring best friend _for life_ ).

Morgana gets into the habit of coming by Merlin’s desk for morning coffee; while his job may not be the most exciting in the world, and his boss _terrifies him_ (Uther Pendragon does rather give out an aura of _I eat small children on toast for breakfast so I will have absolutely no problem murdering you and then doing intrusive and horrible things to your cold dead body before dumping it in a river somewhere, if you even think about fucking me over_ , which is possibly part of the reason why _no one_ so much as steals stationery from Pendragon Industries), Merlin does genuinely love his job. For one thing, he’s very good at it; something that seems to surprise everyone around him. Gwen claims it’s his hair, which, no matter _how_ he cuts it, always ends up looking like he’s just rolled out of bed after a particularly bad nightmare (or, as she put it, _a particularly wild night of sex_ , but Merlin is doing his _best_ not to remember that), and the general air of incompetence he manages to project. 

“I’m in line for a promotion,” Merlin has to explain to Morgana after about a week. 

“Oh,” she says, in the way that everyone _always_ does. “But… you’re…” She waves a hand in a way that manages to encompass _badly dressed, permanently cheerful in a way that’s somewhat creepy, possibly an idiot, and cripplingly self-effacing_.

“Yep.” Merlin smirks.

“You’re a sneaky bastard, Merlin Emrys,” Morgana informs him. “Is getting everyone to underestimate you some kind of… strategy? Are you going to end up stealing Pendragon Enterprises from under Uther’s nose?”

Merlin has noted that Morgana always refers to Uther by his first name, and never as _my stepfather_. He’s sure that’s something slightly important, though he’s not entirely sure why yet.

“I’m thinking of writing a book,” Merlin agrees. “ _How To Get Ahead By Getting Everyone Around You To Think That You’re A Moron_. It’s going to be a best-seller.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Morgana smiles.

“Well,” Merlin smiles back, dropping his voice, “You’re the one who can see the future. Do I have a glittering career ahead of me writing self-help business books?” Morgana just rolls her eyes. Merlin grins. “That isn’t a ‘no’.”

After another week, Morgana explains to Merlin that she’s given up going to the support group; it was never doing her that much good, and it was only going to end in her getting into some kind of bitch fight with Nimueh.

“And that would have been a bad thing?” Merlin asks.

They’re sitting on a bench outside the gigantic gleaming skyscraper that houses Pendragon Industries’ head office, sipping at paper cups of coffee. Morgana reaches out with her free hand and idly straightens Merlin’s tie, which inevitably ends up twisted around under Merlin’s ear no matter how hard he tries. It seems he’s just doomed to be scruffy _forever_. The look on her face is thoughtful, sharp, and it makes Merlin’s spine crackle. 

“I _always_ dream the future,” she says, “Every little thing. There are very few surprises in my life.”

Merlin isn’t sure where she’s going with this, but he can sense that it’s important, so he listens quietly.

“I mean, the future isn’t quite set in stone. I can change it, and little events can cause the biggest transformations.” Morgana plays with the plastic lid of her coffee cup for a moment. “I used to dream about being best friends with Nimueh,” she continues eventually, awkwardly. “Every fortnight she’d annoy me more, you know? But in my dreams we were destined to be _friends_.”

“Maybe she’s not as much of a bitch as you think she is,” Merlin offers.

Morgana shakes her head emphatically. “I didn’t dream _you_ ,” she says, fixing Merlin with a penetrating blue stare. “And that’s never happened before. I always dream about everyone who comes into my life, you know? I knew my mother was getting remarried before she even _met_ Uther. I knew Arthur and Lance were going to be best friends when Arthur was still beating him up in the playground. I’m even getting to know Gwen quite well.” Merlin frowns, mouth opening, but he doesn’t know what to say. “But I didn’t dream _you_ , Merlin, and since I’ve met you I dream about fighting Nimueh _all the time_.”

Merlin finally looks away from her, down at the coffee cup in his hands. “I don’t know what to say,” he admits.

“Neither do I,” Morgana shrugs. When Merlin risks a look, she’s smiling again. “I just thought I ought to mention it.”

They bin their coffee cups and walk back into the building. Once they’ve flashed their security passes, a harassed-looking young woman comes running up to them.

“Miss Le Fay,” she says, holding out a large bunch of extremely pretty white lilies, “These just came for you.”

Morgana leaves the woman holding the flowers as she opens the card. Merlin leans over her shoulder to read what it says: 

_Missed you last night._

_Edwin  
x_

“Eugh,” Morgana says, tearing the card in two. “And he sent _lilies_?”

Merlin shrugs. “Apparently so.”

“Lilies are _the flower of death_ ,” Morgana says emphatically, disdain in her tone. “Go and bin them,” she tells the woman, and heads off towards the lifts. For someone wearing four-inch heels, she’s moving remarkably quickly; Merlin almost has to run to keep up with her.

“Are you all right?” he asks, following her into the empty lift, and hitting the button for his floor.

“Fine,” Morgana spits out between her teeth; her knuckles are clenched white. She leans past Merlin, and presses the button for the top floor, where Uther and Arthur Pendragon’s offices are.

Merlin decides it might be wise to remain quiet for the rest of the ride.

^

Morgana loves her brother dearly, because he takes one look at her face when she walks into his office and calls through to his PA to cancel any and all appointments he might have today.

“You have lunch with Sophia, sir,” Galahad points out quietly.

This does not in any way improve Morgana’s mood. Arthur’s latest girlfriend is beautiful but a complete bitch. Arthur, with characteristic obliviousness, has utterly failed to notice this, and Morgana suspects that the sex must be absolutely _fantastic_ because she cannot see any other reason why anyone would want to spend protracted amounts of time around Sophia.

Arthur must see Morgana’s lips thin, because he sighs. “Yes, cancel that too. Tell her I’ll make it up to her.”

When he’s finished the call, Morgana spurns the uncomfortable chair on the opposite side of Arthur’s desk – so that anyone he calls a meeting with will be on edge through the whole thing and will not be inclined to linger; he’s learning – and instead goes to sit down on the black couch Arthur keeps in the corner. No one knows exactly how many nights Arthur spends sleeping in his office, except Galahad – who takes his job _extremely seriously_ – and Morgana – who _lives_ with Arthur and therefore notices when he doesn’t come home – but it really is too many.

“She’ll be in this afternoon,” Morgana prophesises gloomily. “Weeping and wailing and being all clingy.” She curls her lip with distaste.

“Nice to know your feelings towards Sophia haven’t changed,” Arthur says mildly, coming to join her on the sofa. “You know, your stubbornness is one of your very best features.”

“I _don’t like her_ ,” Morgana says. “I don’t trust her.”

“You don’t like anyone I date,” Arthur points out, somewhat reasonably.

“That’s because you always date selfish, gold-digging airheads,” Morgana replies calmly. Arthur always _has_ ; never going out with the same woman for long, always picking the aesthetically pleasing ones as though he thinks that’s what he _ought_ to want rather than out of any sort of personal preference. But that’s part of her thesis on _Why Arthur Pendragon Is Evidently Gay But Hasn’t Realised Yet, Which Is Hardly Surprising Given How Fast He Usually Catches Onto Things_ , and not relevant to this. “Seriously, there must be other women out there capable of looking nice in dresses and doing whatever it is that makes you get that weird smug look at the breakfast table.”

One of the first things Morgana and Arthur did when they moved in together was get the whole place soundproofed. It was the only way to ensure they wouldn’t try and murder each other in the night.

“If I didn’t know better, Morgana Le Fay,” Arthur says slowly, looking amused, “I’d say you were _jealous_.”

“Please,” Morgana scoffs, “I’ve shared a bathroom with you, I’d never be able to fancy you.”

Arthur tips his head to one side. “Actually, we lived in my father’s mansion growing up,” he reminds her. “We had _thirteen bathrooms_.”

Morgana waves a hand. “Semantics,” she replies. “And anyway, you were always coming into my bathroom and stealing my hair products.” She smirks at him. “It was about then I realised you were a vain tosser.”

“I can reschedule my appointments,” Arthur threatens idly, but they both know he doesn’t mean it. 

“Seriously,” Morgana says, catching Arthur’s eyes. “I have a bad feeling about her.”

“ _Yes_ , Obi Wan,” Arthur responds, rolling his eyes. “But no actual visions?”

“Not yet,” Morgana admits.

“Well then,” Arthur shrugs. “It’s going to be fine.”

“Actually…” Morgana twists the hem of her skirt between her fingers. “My prophecy powers don’t seem to be working properly at the moment.”

Arthur catches her gaze and scrutinises her for a moment. “You don’t look sick,” he says; the last time she lost the ability to see the future, Morgana had caught malaria on holiday, and what a fun time that was for _everyone_. “Is this to do with that Malcolm bloke?”

“ _Merlin_ ,” Morgana corrects automatically.

“Have I mentioned how stupid I think that name is?” Arthur asks.

“Repeatedly.”

“Right then.” Arthur smirks, and then becomes serious again. “It must be to do with him. Normally, when you’re about to meet someone new, you get all smug for days. Like your last boyfriend. You danced around the flat going _on Thursday I’m going to get asked out and then I’m going to get shagged at The Ritz_. It was insufferable. But no mention of Merlin at all.”

“I know.” Morgana catches her lower lip between her teeth, trying to think. “I don’t know what that means, exactly.”

Arthur shrugs. “Isn’t that what your Support Group thing is for?”

“I’ve stopped going,” Morgana admits. “I didn’t go yesterday.”

Arthur was out with Sophia most of the afternoon, and therefore didn’t notice that Morgana chose to stay in and watch _The West Wing_ repeats with Charbonnel Et Walker chocolates instead.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Arthur asks carefully. “I mean, I’m glad you’re in a situation where Valiant The Twat isn’t about to rape you, but…”

“Edwin sent me flowers saying he missed me,” Morgana cuts him off.

“Is Edwin…” Arthur waves a hand at his face, managing to indicate _the one with the weird melty skin_ quite adequately. 

Morgana nods.

“Sounds more like The Morgana Le Fay Fanclub than a Freaky Special Abilities support group,” Arthur says, smirking.

“ _It’s not funny!_ ”

“Right.” Arthur clears his throat, and leaps into Defensive Brother Mode. It is, quite frankly, adorable. “Do we need to get a restraining order put out on him?”

Morgana considers this. She has no evidence that anything is wrong; just a gut feeling. But what with the fact she can not only _see_ the future, but _sense_ it as well, a gut feeling shouldn’t be dismissed lightly.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I just… it feels weird. And he sent me lilies, which are basically the flower of funerals. I don’t know if he’s trying to tell me something or he just knows nothing at all about the language of flowers.”

“Not everyone has time to wiki floral arrangements before they buy them,” Arthur points out mildly. He offers her a charming smile, the one that has most of the girls on the twelfth floor swooning – they’ve all got Arthur’s _OK!_ magazine interview pictures blu-tacked to the insides of their cubicles – and offers Morgana his hand. “Lunch, sister dearest?”

Morgana smiles and takes it. “Don’t mind if I do.”

^

About three days after Morgana tells Merlin that he is blatantly confusing and abnormal (not her exact words, but he had to paraphrase the whole thing when repeating it to Gwen over Chinese takeaway that evening), she misses morning coffee with him. It’s not really a huge deal; but they have had coffee together every morning for the last month, so Merlin still feels a little bit rejected.

It’s a fairly shitty day all round, really, because one of the women who works on the seventh floor drops down dead of an apparent brain haemorrhage; Merlin barely knows her – at the most, all he’s done is share the lift with her and smile at her a couple of times – but it’s still a shock. Most of the seventh floor gets sent home, which is almost enough to make Merlin wish he worked there, but when he walks past the office later and sees the large blown up photographs of the dead woman he can’t help thinking there’s something _important_ about this whole thing that he’s missing.

He’d ask Morgana, but he’s not sure if she’s avoiding him deliberately, and therefore can’t tell if it’s ok to call or not. 

“You’re moping about like you’ve been _dumped_ ,” Gwen points out that evening, a little too reasonably, sprawled on the sofa with him and doing her job as Best Friend And Flatmate by making sympathetic noises in the right places. “Are you _sure_ there’s nothing you want to tell me about you and Morgana?”

Merlin sighs. “I’ve learned my lesson; I will never keep secrets from you ever again.”

Gwen gives him a sunny smile, and ruffles his tousled hair. “Good boy.”

But it’s been a bad day all round, no matter how much tea Gwen makes him – she makes _really good_ tea, whereas Merlin always ends up putting the teabag in for the wrong amount of time, and the drinks he makes are therefore mediocre and disappointing – so Merlin decides to have an early night.

It is stupid o’clock in the morning when the phone starts ringing. Merlin glances blearily at the alarm clock next to his bed – which hardly ever gets to do its job because he invariably ends up hitting _snooze_ for way too long – and at the little green numbers telling him that it’s way too early. He rolls over, pulling the pillow over his head, and decides to pretend that this _isn’t happening_. However, that plan fails miserably when Gwen walks into his bedroom, holding out the ringing cordless phone.

“This is going to be your problem,” she says, leaving unsaid the _my friends aren’t psycho enough to ring me this early_.

Merlin takes the phone from her, and after a couple of false starts manages to thumb the button to answer.

“Hello?”

“Why aren’t you answering your fucking mobile?” Morgana demands. She sounds frantic and scared; not controlled and dignified like she normally is. “It doesn’t matter,” she continues. “Get dressed and meet me downstairs. I’m on my way to your place, I’ll be there in less than five minutes. I need your help.”

“What’s going on?” Merlin asks, trying to sound calm and collected because someone has to be.

“It’s Sophia,” Morgana says, practically spitting the name. “She’s going to kill Arthur.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a rescue attempt leads to Merlin getting _very, very_ wet, Arthur inadvertently offending him, and Lance getting angry.

_Laughingly I take the fevered applause  
Of the people by the riverside  
I’m walking  
Walking on water  
God knows why._  
\- The Sundays

“You’re not coming,” Merlin says, voice somewhat muffled through the t-shirt Gwen is currently pulling over his head. “It might be dangerous.”

Gwen has managed to get herself fully dressed in what seems to be about thirty seconds flat, and is looking irritatingly perky for twenty past four in the morning. Merlin is still stumbling about, which is why Gwen has taken pity on him and is trying to help him get dressed.

“That did occur to me,” she says, handing him a clean pair of socks, “When you said: ‘Morgana says Arthur’s bitchy girlfriend is going to kill him’. I didn’t really think it was going to be a tea-and-biscuits sort of thing.”

Merlin finally manages to pull his socks on, and looks around for his shoes. “What makes you think you can help?”

“I’m awesome,” Gwen responds cheerfully, scooping up a pair of battered converse from the floor and handing them to Merlin. “And, out of the two of us, I’m the only one capable of walking in a straight line right now, which I feel gives me brownie points.”

Merlin scowls, shrugs into a jacket, and hopes his brain will have woken up a little by the time Morgana comes to get him.

As they hurry down the stairs – the lift is broken again – Gwen observes: “If you’re going to replace me with Morgana, you might want to remember that I have never called you up in the middle of the night with weird requests.”

Merlin considers this. “There was that time in uni when you were at a party and drunk and that guy was mean to you and you rang me up and I had to go and get Will and we drove halfway across the country-”

“Our unis were less than a hundred miles apart,” Gwen points out patiently, as she does every time Merlin recounts this story.

“-To come and be nice to you and then all your classmates thought you were dating both of us and I missed all my lectures the next day and Will got coffee all over my favourite jeans.”

The cold night air outside hits Merlin’s face, instantly waking him up. He shivers.

“Did you have a point?” Gwen asks after a moment.

Merlin smiles a little ruefully. “I think my point is that you’re going to be my Best Girl Ever for, you know, _ever_.”

Gwen smiles back, and it’s then that Merlin hears the screeching tires. A car comes around the corner on two wheels and pulls to a halt in front of them with a scream of brakes. Morgana is sitting with her knuckles white on the steering wheel, looking fragile and frightened and Merlin feels the adrenaline kick in; whatever she’s seen has clearly terrified her and he wants to help however he can. He and Gwen quickly get into the backseat, and Morgana drives off again.

“This is Gwen,” Merlin says, although he thinks Morgana already knows, “I wanted you two to meet under different circumstances, but…”

Morgana nods abruptly, flooring the accelerator and it’s just as well it’s the middle of the night because the roads are mercifully free of traffic.

“What’s going to happen?” Merlin asks, getting down to the point. “How can I help?”

Morgana takes a deep breath and then another one, keeping her eyes on the road. 

“I saw Sophia,” she says, “I saw her… trying to _drown_ Arthur.”

“I thought you said she was a gold-digger,” Gwen says, and if Morgana is surprised at how faithfully Merlin relays their conversations, she doesn’t pick now to mention it. “Surely she won’t get anything if she kills Arthur?”

“She’s… she’s like me and Merlin,” Morgana says, taking a corner too fast and making Merlin want to curl up on the floor of the car and weep, “Sophia has some form of powers… she’s using Magic. She needs Arthur for something, I just don’t know what.”

“Am I going to be able to help?” Merlin asks. “I mean, I’ll do whatever I can, but…”

“I didn’t know who else to turn to,” Morgana tells him, but her voice breaks halfway through the sentence and Merlin _hates_ hearing how afraid she is. 

“It’s going to be all right,” Gwen says, and she sounds so calm and reassuring that Merlin kind of wants to wrap his arms around her for a while until the world starts looking alright again. 

Morgana catches Gwen’s eye in the rearview mirror, and nods decisively. “Right. I’ve seen what _could_ happen, and so we’ll stop it. And at least I know exactly where we’re going.”

It’s just as well Morgana is the stepdaughter of a billionaire because she’s probably going to have about fifty speeding tickets later, but for the moment they flash through red and green lights alike, and Merlin tries to work out what exactly he can do to prevent attempted murder when the time actually comes, and also what Morgana will do to him if he has to ask her to pull over so he can be sick. Gwen reaches over and curls her fingers, warm and supportive, over his shoulder, and Merlin reminds himself that, for want of a considerably better word, he is _kind of a superhero_. So he will somehow do this, and it will all be _fine_.

Morgana abruptly brakes, leaving the engine running as she pushes the door open and sprints down the road. Gwen and Merlin exchange _daughter of a billionaire_ expressions and then get out and run after her. Rounding the corner of a building, Merlin finds the Millennium Wheel ahead of them, lit up blue at night like it normally is. But Morgana is running towards it, and Merlin realises that the lights all over the Wheel are _moving_. Skittering around like they’re gigantic fireflies or something, and Gwen lets out a sound of confusion beside him. 

While Merlin still isn’t sure what’s going on, he’s fairly sure this isn’t at all good, and so puts on an extra burst of speed, managing to catch up with Morgana, who has run past the wheel onto the Southbank, and now…

Merlin takes in the whole situation in a moment; he can feel himself panicking, his thoughts running around in desperate circles shrieking _Oh God, oh shit, what do I do_ , his breath catching in short sharp gasps from running, but above all that there’s a sort of… blankness. A space in his mind entirely free of fear or confusion where he can see exactly what’s going on. 

There’s an extremely pretty young woman in a beige silk dress that looks cold and impractical for this weather – Merlin is going to assume that this is Sophia – standing on the railing that separates the general public from the Thames, and she is holding what looks like a gigantic staff. The part of Merlin that has no idea what the hell to do starts mentally laughing at this – _Jesus_ , this really is one step too far, his life is now officially _stupid_ and _abnormal_ – but the rest of him is watching how Sophia’s other hand is stretched out, fingers curling just slightly, and hanging in the air a few feet beneath that hand is…

“Arthur,” Morgana moans beside Merlin, desperation in her voice. Sophia hears, turning her head, and Merlin doesn’t even think about what he’s doing as he hooks his mind around the staff in her hand and _pulls_. It flies across the space between them and smacks into his palm. The wood feels alive; almost too hot to touch, but he squeezes it tightly anyway. Sophia’s mouth opens but Merlin is faster than her. He’s not entirely sure what happens, because he’s not consciously aware of thinking anything, but deep red light pours out of the end of the staff. It hits Sophia in the chest and, in a way that’s entirely ungory, she disintegrates. Merlin scarcely has time to think something like _oh fucking hell I’ve actually killed someone_ when Morgana screams and starts running forward, and he belatedly remembers that Sophia was magically holding Arthur above the water, and now that she’s not…

Merlin can hear his heart pounding in his ears as he tries to catch Arthur with his mind and pull him to safety, but without being able to see him he can’t reach him. Morgana shouts Arthur’s name and it’s just as well it’s the middle of the night because this will be _impossible_ to explain if anyone comes along, and Gwen is yelling something behind Merlin but he can’t hear her and he drops the staff as he finally reaches the railing, frantically looking over into the dark water. There’s no sign of Arthur.

“Don’t!” Gwen yells, but she and Morgana weren’t as quick as Merlin and he’s still not really thinking as he leaps over the railing while they’re still catching up with him. Gwen _screams_ just before he hits the water and as icy coldness closes over his head Merlin finally comes to his senses and realises that he has just _jumped into the Thames_.

He surfaces, gasping; the cold is like a million needles in his skin and it’s disorientating: the river is shrouded in darkness but lamps all along the edge cast shaky pools of orange light over the surface, and he can’t hear whatever it is Morgana and Gwen are shouting at him. But he’s here now and Arthur is somewhere, clearly not fighting for his life because he hasn’t come to the surface yet, and Merlin ducks under, trying not to think too hard about the myriad of other things that might be in the Thames. He has to fight his way back to the surface; cold is making his mind freeze up and his breath is practically bursting in his lungs. But he remembers Morgana’s agony and he can’t let her brother die. He just _can’t_.

Finally, Merlin’s hand brushes against what feels like fabric. There’s a lingering warmth in it, a momentary crackle of some kind of _Magic_ , which means this _must_ be Arthur; he clenches his numb fingers and _pulls_. This time, when he breaks the surface of the water, he manages to drag Arthur with him, wrapping his arms around the other man and keeping him elevated.

“ _Merlin!_ ” Gwen’s voice is urgent, and Merlin knows there’s only so long they can survive like this. He screws his eyes up, gathering all the power he can find within him, and then uses it to elevate himself and Arthur until they’re both back over the barrier and lying on the cold concrete.

“You _fucking idiot_ ,” Gwen hisses, pulling off her jacket and draping it around his shoulders. Tears are dripping down her cheeks, shining in the feeble light. Merlin’s teeth are chattering too hard for him to say anything in his defence, so he turns his attention to Arthur. The other man is lying horribly still, eyes closed, and although it’s half dark Merlin can still see that the photographs of Arthur Pendragon haven’t done him justice; even mostly drowned he’s the most beautiful man Merlin has ever seen. He vaguely registers that this is not really the time to be thinking this, but he thinks he might actually be in shock and therefore is allowed to think whatever he wants.

“What do I do?” Morgana demands; her voice is ragged, frantic.

Gwen seems to pull herself together. “Move,” she orders Merlin and Morgana, and positions herself beside Arthur, tipping his head back. Merlin distantly remembers Gwen doing a First Aid course last year; coming home and wrapping him up in various bandages while she practised how to cope with everything from concussions to amputations. And she looks so calm, so collected, as she pinches Arthur’s nose closed and leans down to breathe into his mouth. Merlin almost forgets to breathe himself, watching Gwen pumping Arthur’s chest and breathing for him. Morgana is utterly silent on the ground beside him, and Merlin wonders exactly what she will do if it turns out they’re too late.

On Gwen’s next breath, Arthur starts choking. She sits back and helps him shift so he can vomit up copious amounts of river water, making a helpless groaning sound. And Merlin in no way notices that Arthur is still unreasonably good-looking while throwing up, because that would be strange and wrong.

Morgana lets out a shaky breath, moving to her brother’s side. “Wha-” he manages to articulate.

“Don’t worry,” she says, voice thick, “I’m taking you home. You’re safe, Arthur, all right? You’re _safe_.”

Gwen looks at Merlin, and he can see how afraid she was written right across her face. He wants to tell her how _amazing_ she is, how _clever_ she is, but he’s too cold for full sentences. Instead, he pulls her jacket a little more tightly around him – it’s not much, but it’s a start – and pushes himself to his feet. Gwen is at his side in a moment to help steady him.

“Ok?” she asks quietly.

Merlin smiles at her. “Best Girl _Ever_ ,” he says softly.

She giggles shakily, wiping at the tear smudges on her cheeks, and makes sure he’s standing on his own before going to help Morgana get Arthur upright. The other man is just about conscious, head lolling, dripping wet, and Merlin forces his half-frozen limbs to move.

The walk back to car takes far longer now, since Merlin’s joints seem to be frozen solid and his skin feels like it’s trying to crawl off his body and go somewhere more interesting than _him_ , but at least the Millennium Wheel is no longer glowing. Merlin’s going to take that as a _good sign_.

^

When he wakes up, incongruously in his own bed and wrapped up in about twenty blankets, Arthur realises that he has absolutely no idea how he got here. This isn’t an entirely rare occurrence, but usually the big blank in his brain is preceded by memories of phrases such as _Arthur, would you like some tequila?_ or _what do you mean you haven’t been to this club before, I’m bloody taking you right now_. Now, all he has is a vague memory of buzzing the door to let Sophia in, and now he’s here, cocooned in blankets he didn’t even know he had.

Sophia isn’t here, but when he tips his head Arthur can see that Morgana has fallen asleep beside him, dark hair spread over the pillow. For a split-second, he panics – oh _God_ , he _hasn’t_ had sex with Morgana, has he? – before he remembers that even if he was the most drunk person in the world ever he still wouldn’t inadvertently have sex with Morgana, and manages to calm down again. Although it really doesn’t explain what she’s doing here, dozing on top of the sheets beside him.

Arthur has not seen Morgana looking quite this awful since they were sixteen, and she came into his bedroom in the middle of the night and said: _my mother has cancer and in three months’ time she’s going to die, and I can’t tell her_. She looks pale, her eyes surrounded by dark circles, and he sincerely hopes that she’s not in here to tell him that Uther is about to die because he is seriously not in the mood. Then he tries to move and finds that he aches _all over_ – like he fell down a flight of stairs and then dozens of angry people wearing pointy steel shoes came and kicked him a lot – and decides that he’s not in the mood to hear that _he’s_ about to die either.

Attempts to ask for clarification just end up in weird mixtures of vowel sounds coming out of his mouth, but Morgana hears them and her eyes open immediately. Her drawn face lights up immediately, relief written clearly across her features.

“Oh thank _God_ ,” she says, sitting up and reaching out to feel Arthur’s forehead as though checking for fever or something. “You’re _awake_.”

Arthur’s _of course I’m awake, it’s what people generally do in the morning, and I have a meeting at nine-thirty so would you mind helping me escape from this stupid blanket prison someone has pointlessly made_ gets lost on the way to his mouth, and comes out as: “Wha?”

“It’s all right,” Morgana tells him, brushing his hair off his forehead. She’s been frightened, Arthur can tell, and that worries him because Morgana _never_ gets frightened. She knows the outcome of everything in advance, so she never falls prey to _uncertainty_ or _terror_. At least; she hasn’t so far. “I’ve called and cancelled all your meetings for today.”

_What the fuck?_ Arthur tries again, but his voice seems to have gone into hiding. Maybe he’s got some kind of really weird flu. Maybe _he’s_ got malaria this time.

“I thought, for a while there, you weren’t going to wake up,” Morgana says, voice shaking a little. “I mean, Gwen and I were here for hours, she had to perform CPR twice, I was _this close_ to calling an ambulance.”

Morgana never babbles. She’s far too dignified for it, and the sight of her anxious and rambling frightens Arthur more than anything else could. He may not be able to talk, but he still has facial expressions, and so glares at Morgana with his best _explain what the fuck is going on right now_ face until she pulls herself together.

“It was Sophia,” she says, clearly fighting to keep her voice steady. “She tried to kill you.”

Of all the things Arthur thought she might possibly say, it really wasn’t that. 

“… _Bugger_ ,” he manages croakily. 

His first instinct is to disbelieve Morgana, because _Sophia_? Trying to _kill him_? The idea is, quite frankly, laughable. He arches an incredulous eyebrow.

Morgana sighs, and he notes that her hands are trembling, just slightly.

“No, _really_ ,” she insists. “Do you honestly think that if I’d paid one of your girlfriends to stay away from you-”

“Again,” Arthur can’t help adding.

“All right; _again_ ,” Morgana concedes, “I’d feel the need to come up with this elaborate ruse?”

Arthur shrugs; he knows he’s being a little unreasonable, but he _aches all over_ and _nothing makes any sense_ , so he thinks he has every right to be unhelpful.

Morgana sighs. “I told you who I’d paid off and why every time,” she points out patiently.

It does help, having a sister who can see the future and isn’t afraid to act on it. Morgana is fiercely protective and has never had any scruples about abruptly finishing Arthur’s flings for him, if she knows it’s going to end badly. And she was perfectly open about which girls she got rid of. There was Kate, who was trying to get pregnant to trap Arthur into marriage, and since he was only about nineteen at the time that would have been bad for _everyone_ involved; and Helena, who was secretly on about twelve kinds of prescription medication to prevent her from setting fire to everything around her, and Marian, who Morgana had freely admitted was just a _bitch_.

“ _Ok_ ,” Arthur concedes, because disbelieving Morgana is evidently going to get him nowhere fast.

She gives him a faintly smug smile; only Morgana, Arthur reflects, could conjure up her usual _I Am Always Going To Be Right Because I Am Quite Clearly The Most Awesome Person In The World Ever, When Are You Going To Learn Arthur?_ smile in spite of the worry still etched on her face and the fact she’s clearly been up most of the night panicking. 

“Sophia has weird magical unnatural powers as well,” Morgana tells him, reaching to needlessly fluff one of his pillows. Arthur belatedly realises that he’s lying propped up against more pillows than he thought they had in the whole _flat_ , and decides that Morgana had better hurry up with the explanation because right now he’s generating more questions than she’s giving answers. “She was trying to drown you.”

“Oh,” Arthur says, because there isn’t much else he _could_ say to that, even if his voice was working properly.

“But I called Merlin, and he stopped her,” Morgana adds.

Merlin Emrys is one of Morgana’s friends, and he works for Pendragon Industries. Arthur _did_ get hold of his employee records the day after Morgana mentioned meeting him, just to make sure that his sister hadn’t befriended some kind of _psychopath_ , and had found Merlin’s ID picture. Although he’s willing to admit that no one can take good photographs when put up against a stark white background on a Monday morning, he couldn’t help wincing at the truly _appalling_ haircut the other man had anyway. But there was nothing in the file to imply that Merlin was going to kidnap and torture Morgana for the hell of it, so he didn’t have to go and be scary and threatening and make Merlin leave her alone.

Arthur doesn’t have the option of using precognition to vet everyone Morgana comes into contact with the way she does with him, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t give it a damn good go anyway.

“Details, Morgana,” he croaks.

She looks slightly uncomfortable. “They… fought,” Morgana says at last. “And Sophia ran off.” She bites her lip and continues, in a rush of words: “But she’d already dropped you into the Thames by then.”

Arthur _really_ hopes that Morgana’s just picked a really shitty time for a joke, because if she hasn’t… 

“It’s all right,” Morgana adds quickly, as though Arthur hadn’t _noticed_ this by his distinct lack of being _horribly drowned_ , “Merlin jumped in after you and got you out.”

Even if his voice was working properly, Arthur thinks he’d be left entirely speechless by this anyway.

Morgana smirks slightly. “I’ll admit it wasn’t quite the _smartest_ plan, but everyone’s still alive, so…”

They’re interrupted by a very pretty young woman Arthur is fairly certain he hasn’t met before walking into the room.

“Merlin’s awake,” she says, “And I know you said I could borrow some clothes from Arthur…”

Arthur’s first thought is something instinctive and incoherent along the lines of _no! You cannot give my clothes to this man! I have seen his awful hair!_ before he remembers that Merlin has, however incompetently, apparently saved his life and it might be kind of petty to begrudge him clothing.

“Oh!” the woman says, apparently noticing that Arthur is some degree of awake too. “Arthur! You’re all right!”

“…Yes,” Arthur says, in lieu of the million sarcastic things he could say in reply to that, because his brain still feels a little mushy and he gets the feeling that whatever he snaps at her will be sub-par and Morgana will tease him about it _forever_.

“I’m Gwen,” the random woman tells him, with an instantly charming smile. “I’m Merlin’s friend.”

Something Morgana said earlier in her panicked babbling bobs up in Arthur’s brain. “CPR Gwen?” he hazards.

She blushes. It’s somewhat gratifying; Arthur may have had to work hard at all sorts of things to get on in life, but he _was_ born with wonderful amounts of charisma. 

“I was, um, well, glad to help,” she stammers, and Arthur decides that his is clearly a sign of how completely _brilliant_ he is because he’s currently trapped in bed feeling like crap – and probably not looking that much better – and he is still able to reduce people to incoherent jelly. “Um, clothes?” she adds.

Arthur shoots Morgana a look that clearly says _if you give away any of my favourite clothing items I will forget that I am grateful to be alive_ , and she rolls her eyes but goes and finds some of the clothes Arthur normally wears when going to the gym that he won’t mind parting with, and Gwen hurries out with them.

Morgana walks back over to the bed and helps Arthur sit up, freeing him from his blanket prison. After a couple of false starts, he’s able to stay sitting up on his own, and his body starts feeling like it might listen to him long enough for him to have a shower. Morgana sits down on the mattress beside him, and abruptly throws her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder. It’s a true testament of how much she cares about him, Arthur notes, since he’s beginning to realise that he still smells _like the Thames_ , and he hugs her back. This, too, reminds him of that horrible night when they were sixteen; when Morgana was shivering so badly that Arthur forgot everything but the need to comfort her, wrapped her up in his bed with him, and held her while she cried for three hours.

“You’re not going to cry, are you?” he whispers after a moment.

Morgana chokes on something that is either a giggle or the beginning of tears; it’s too muffled for Arthur to be able to tell. “No.”

“Promise?”

She laughs, and lets him go. “Twat. Sometimes I don’t know why I bother.”

_Because then you’d have to have Sunday lunch with father without me, and the two of you would find ways to murder each other with parsnips and it would all be very traumatic._

But all Arthur does is grin.

^

“You really are an idiot sometimes,” Gwen says fondly, coming unannounced into the bathroom just as Merlin is trying to work out whether his arms will reach up high enough for him to dry his hair. His body aches from using his powers and whatever he did with Sophia’s Random Magical Staff Thing and from being a moron who jumped into a river without thinking for someone he didn’t really know. 

“Gwen!” he says, jumping at the sound of her voice. “Should you be in here?”

“I have seen you in varying degrees of nudity before,” Gwen points out reasonably, walking over and taking the smaller towel from Merlin’s hands, reaching up to start drying his hair. “In fact, I saw you mostly naked only this morning when you apparently lost the ability to dress yourself.”

It is sort of depressing sometimes; how Gwen blatantly _does not fancy him at all_. All right, so it would be awkward if she did, but it’s not exactly good for his ego either.

“Yes,” Merlin agrees, voice somewhat muffled by the towel she’s vigorously shaking all over his head, “But now I’m… _wet_.”

“Oh God,” Gwen deadpans, “I see what you mean. I have managed to entirely fail to notice how madly in love with you I am for nearly two decades; oh, but _now_ I have seen you all soggy in this unreasonably gigantic bathroom that is about the size of our entire flat, I realise I cannot contain my desperate lust for you. Oh, Merlin, please, take me up against the sink!”

Merlin folds his arms and pouts.

“Sorry.” Gwen smiles softly. “I’m very glad you didn’t drown.”

He knows that he _really_ scared her, but they’re not ready to talk about it yet, and that’s ok. One day they will sit down and Gwen will shout and Merlin will apologise and it will all get _fine_ between them.

“Oh,” Gwen adds, “And Arthur has woken up. So your stupidity did have some positive results after all.”

“I haven’t indirectly killed my boss’ son,” Merlin agrees, “This can only be a good thing.”

Gwen smiles, stepping back. She hangs the towel over a rail and hands him a neat pile of clothes; _Arthur Pendragon’s_ clothes, Merlin realises.

“I can’t wear these!” he says, hushed and panicked.

Gwen sighs. “You can’t hide in here _forever_ , Merlin,” she says, a little too reasonably.

“I don’t see why not,” Merlin says, “It’s ridiculously large in here, you said so yourself. The _bathtub_ is bigger than my _bedroom_.”

But Gwen is a scary force to be reckoned with, and apparently, after a sleepless night torn between worrying about Merlin and repeatedly making sure Arthur didn’t die, she wants a nice hot shower. Merlin does not exactly blame her, and after she turns a very determined glare on him he obediently gets dressed in Arthur’s clothes – they must be about the same height, but Arthur apparently has a far more manly build than Merlin – and slinks out.

Morgana is striding about looking very regal in a pretty silk dressing gown, but she also looks completely worn out.

“I don’t know if I’ve really thanked you yet,” she says, and throws her arms around him. Merlin is slightly non-plussed, but manages to hug her back.

“Really,” he says, “I’m glad I could help.”

Morgana finally releases him, and the smile has gone from her face. She’s looking firm and shrewd and utterly terrifying now. “You were an _idiot_. I cannot _believe_ you just _jumped into the river_.”

Merlin flushes uncomfortably; he’s perfectly aware it was a stupid thing to do, and he’s fairly sure Gwen will go _on and on_ about it for at least the next, ooh, _decade_ , and so he will get to spend even more time wondering why the hell he did something so blatantly stupid and lacking in self-preservation. He’s not sure he’ll get a proper answer, though, no matter how long he dwells on it.

“I know,” he mumbles sheepishly.

Morgana smiles, and the anger is immediately gone, as though it was never there in the first place. If Merlin wasn’t already kind of scared of her, in an entirely affectionate way, he knows he would be _now_.

“By the way,” she says, voice dropping, “If you happen to run into Arthur at any point, which is not outside the realm of possibility, I haven’t told him Sophia’s dead; could you not mention it?”

Merlin is _never_ going to mention Sophia again, if only because he’s _never_ killed anyone before and while she was obviously about to do A Bad Thing, it doesn’t change the fact that, somehow, he _made her disintegrate_. Really, it’s not something he’s capable of casually dropping into conversation with _anyone_.

“I won’t,” he manages at last, because Morgana is looking at him as though she expects an answer of some kind.

“Thanks, Merlin.” She kisses his cheek. “Kitchen’s down there,” she adds. “If you want to eat something. I need a hot bath and some clean clothes I think, before I have to give a sanitised version of this to Uther.”

She sweeps off, and Merlin is left standing in the hall for a moment, bare feet getting cold against the laminate floor before he reflects he should probably go and eat something. His stomach is clenching, though whether that’s because he’s _starving_ or because he’s had an incredibly stressful day he honestly can’t say.

It takes a couple of attempts for him to find the kitchen, because Morgana and Arthur’s flat takes up the _entire top floor_ of their building and therefore has a slightly terrifying number of rooms, but eventually he finds a large, airy space with a fridge about the size of _Gwen’s_ bedroom in it, and decides it’s safe to assume that this is the kitchen.

After a moment, he registers that Arthur Pendragon is also in the kitchen, sitting at the gigantic round mahogany dining table, looking decidedly alive and reading the _Financial Times_ with a slight frown on his face. Merlin opens his mouth to say something that will hopefully come out sounding slightly normal – because he gets the feeling he’s not quite arrogant enough to carry off the _hey, I kind of somehow managed to save your life this morning; awesome, huh?_ – but his attention gets caught by the little crease of concentration between Arthur’s eyebrows, and all words ever dry up in his mouth.

Merlin has seen the pictures and has, on a couple of occasions, seen Arthur at the ends of corridors and things because they do, after all, work in the same building and everything, but his most recent frame of reference for Arthur was him lying on the ground vomiting and almost blue with cold, when he was depressingly handsome while doing _that_. But now he’s been cleaned up and he’s had some sleep and Merlin belatedly realises that Arthur is _shockingly_ good-looking. That’s really the only way to describe it; you glance away and think that your brain must have been doing its own equivalent of air-brushing, because _no one_ can be that _gorgeous_ in real life, and then you look back and are once again surprised by just how _beautiful_ Arthur _really is_.

Stringing together a sentence that doesn’t involve words like _golden_ and _cheekbones_ is proving to be impossible, and Merlin really hopes he isn’t blushing because that would be the final sodding straw. It’s bad enough that he’s wearing the least-flattering outfit _ever_ and his hair is still dripping cold water down the back of his neck. Finally, he decides that Arthur’s dazzling looks must be something you can get used to, after a while, because otherwise the man wouldn’t be able to do _anything_ without being ravaged every time he stepped outside his office, and therefore it is time for Merlin to stop _drooling_ over him and pull himself together. 

He’s just about to say something like _hello, where do you keep your marmalade?_ – which is going to sound slightly crazy but is far better than most of the alternatives – when Arthur seems to catch sight of him out of the corner of his eye, and finally looks up.

^

There’s a man standing in the open kitchen doorway, Arthur notes when he finally looks away from the doom and gloom of the _FT_. A skinny, pale man with a messy shock of damp dark hair – Arthur apparently doesn’t entirely manage to hide his wince, because a momentary look of confusion flashes across the man’s face – looking somewhat swamped in Arthur’s clothing. 

“Merlin?” he asks.

“I – uh – I mean, that is, um… yes,” the man says. He is staring at Arthur as though he has grown another head; which Arthur is going to assume hasn’t happened, because even though pretty much _anything_ is possible at this point in time, he feels sure he would have noticed.

Arthur reminds himself that a) Merlin has had a somewhat trying day, what with _saving Arthur’s life_ and everything, and b) Morgana insists that although Merlin comes across as vague and incompetent, he is actually hiding an incredibly sharp mind, and Morgana is generally right about _everything_ , though Arthur will of course never admit it.

There is a mad sort of awkwardness in the air, and Arthur cannot be dealing with this right now.

“There’s a toaster over there,” he says, waving his hand at the appliance on the sideboard. “If you want, you know, some food.”

“…Right,” Merlin says, after blinking a couple of times. He appears to mentally shake himself, and then gives Arthur a suddenly blinding grin, which is a much better alternative to the blank, stunned expression of before, although it does have the unfortunate side-effect of making Merlin look completely _demented_.

Arthur tries to pay attention to his newspaper and not listen to Merlin clattering about behind him, but keeps being distracted by one thought: _this is not how this is supposed to go_. Admittedly, Arthur hasn’t exactly had his life saved before, and definitely not by bemused-looking men who appear to have difficulty remembering their own names, but he’s reasonably certain there’s meant to be more sort of _conversation_ than this. Or, you know, _something_.

A few minutes later, Merlin sits down opposite him. The table is big enough for Arthur to spread his broadsheet out right across it, so they’re not exactly squashed together or anything, but they’re now occupying the same sort of space and Arthur feels that he needs to make this _weirdness_ stop before he does something inadvisable like banging his head against the wall.

“Coffee?” he offers, and when Merlin nods with a murmur of _thanks_ he pushes the cafétiere across the table towards him. Merlin pours himself a mug, and then looks down at the dry toast in front of him. 

“ _Bugger_ ,” he says quietly.

“I can get you-” Arthur offers, but Merlin cuts him off with a quick shake of his head.

“It’s ok,” he says, “Where do you keep your jam?”

Arthur points at one of their million cupboards – for the first six months after getting the kitchen redone, he and Morgana had to have a detailed map and a Powerpoint Presentation on where all their different groceries were kept – and Merlin smiles slightly. Then Arthur’s mouth drops open, because Merlin suddenly gets a look of real concentration on his face and his blue eyes flush gold. A moment later, and a pot of raspberry jam floats over and lands neatly on the table in front of him.

“Your power’s flashier than Morgana’s,” Arthur offers, as Merlin unscrews the lid and begins spreading the jam on his toast as though this is a perfectly normal everyday occurrence; and, Arthur reflects, it probably _is_.

Merlin offers him that brilliant smile, the deliberate gravitas disappearing, and looks like a cretin again.

“It is,” he agrees mildly; not in an arrogant way, just in a stating-the-facts kind of way. “Hers is cooler though,” he adds, taking a bite of toast.

Arthur reads the same column eight times, while Merlin _devours_ what appears to be an entire loaf of bread, and tries to figure out what’s going on here. He doesn’t like not being in control of a situation, and right now he doesn’t feel in control at _all_.

“You saved my life,” he blurts out finally.

Merlin swallows a mouthful of toast. “I did,” he agrees mildly. “At least, I _think_ I did, I mean, parts of it are a bit hazy.”

Arthur smiles slightly, but forces himself to continue. “And of course I’m grateful-”

“That’s ok,” Merlin says, shrugging, apparently accepting the thanks Arthur didn’t quite say.

“Yes, but, well…” Oh dear _God_ , if it turns out Merlin’s incoherency is somehow contagious Arthur is going to have some kind of (extremely manly) hysterical fit. “What do you _want_?”

Merlin looks completely and utterly puzzled, his whole face crumpling up in what appears to be confusion. He must be _dreadful_ at poker, Arthur reflects, because every little emotion is right there, writ large across Merlin’s rather expressive features. 

“Um,” he says. Arthur pours himself another cup of coffee and sips at it while Merlin apparently attempts to shuffle some words together in his head. “Well, what does _anybody_ want?” Merlin says at last, sounding hopeless and like he _knows_ that’s the wrong answer but isn’t entirely sure why.

Maybe Morgana has been lying when saying to Arthur that Merlin is secretly very intelligent.

When Arthur continues staring incredulously at him, Merlin stammers: “Well, you know, I want world peace, obviously, and _Pushing Daisies_ not to have been cancelled because it was really _cute_ , and a ridiculously nice and pretty man to sweep me off to a life of luxury and general awesomeness… and… I don’t know… a pony?”

Arthur pours himself another cup of coffee, because he’s going to end up with his head in his hands otherwise and if Morgana finds out that he’s been rude to her friend then she will probably hit him or tell Uther some horrible rumour about Arthur and an intern and then his father will _look_ at him for at least a fortnight.

“Let me get this straight,” he says patiently, “You saved my life, and in return you want me to buy you an American TV show and a _pony_?”

“Well, not really,” Merlin says, and now he’s looking Arthur like _he’s_ the idiot, “I mean, I’d have nowhere to keep it for one thing, and – and what do you mean, _in return_?”

“You _saved my life_ ,” Arthur says, and it comes out as kind of more than a rebuke than he means it to, “You _jumped into a river for me_. I assume you want some kind of compensation?”

“Oh,” Merlin says. “Well, um, no thanks. I just did this to help out Morgana.”

“Are you trying to…” Arthur trails off. Merlin looks slightly affronted.

“I’m _gay_ ,” he says, with very little patience. “I’m not interested in your sister. Very attractive as she is.”

All right. Arthur can cope with this. “What about Gwen?” he asks.

“I haven’t asked her,” Merlin responds nonsensically, shrugging. “I mean, she and Morgana have only known each other about six hours…”

_Oh dear God_. Arthur grits his teeth. He honestly can’t work out if Merlin is being _deliberately obtuse_ or if being Magical and Abnormal just means that his brain works differently to… people’s. 

“She helped too,” Arthur points out long-sufferingly, “And she isn’t a friend of Morgana’s as far as I’m aware, so what does _she_ want?”

“I don’t think she wants anything either!” Merlin seems to be getting slightly distressed; his voice is rising in pitch. 

“But…” Arthur wants to go back to bed and hide in his impractical blanket prison until this all _goes away_. “You don’t know me and you risked your life to save mine and you work for my father so… what, do you want a promotion?”

Merlin scowls. “I can get one of those on my _own merit_ ,” he snaps, and Arthur seems to have touched a nerve somewhere, although he didn’t mean to. Some of his incredulity must accidentally show on his face, because Merlin’s scowl deepens. “I saved your life because you’re a _person_ and you shouldn’t be murdered by Magic because that would be stupid. I didn’t do it to get things, I didn’t do it for a promotion.” His voice is trembling slightly. “I don’t want _paying_ for something I did of my own free will.”

All the crockery on the table is shaking, and Arthur realises that somehow he has _really hurt Merlin’s feelings_. Merlin seems to notice the vibrating plates because he closes his eyes and after a moment they still. Merlin stands up.

“I wish I hadn’t-” he begins, and then cuts himself off. “No, I don’t wish I hadn’t saved you, because if you’d died your father would probably have made some kind of memorial and I’d have to look at your stupid prat face _every day_.”

He slams the kitchen door on the way out without actually touching it, and Arthur finishes his coffee wondering what the hell just happened. 

About five minutes later, Morgana sweeps in. She’s wearing make-up and is looking clean and fresh and a lot more collected than Arthur feels.

“You are a twat,” she says calmly, tiredly. “You are a twat of the highest order. All you had to do was smile and say _thank you_ and not mention his hair!”

“He basically called me a _stupid pratface_ ,” Arthur protests, and realises he sounds about five.

“After you essentially treated him like a prostitute,” Morgana snaps. “Not everyone’s as mercenary as you, Arthur!”

“Hey,” he says.

“You _do not get to be offended_ ,” Morgana says, glaring at him.

Arthur decides not to push it by asking _what happened to ‘I’m glad you’re not dead, Arthur, I was so worried’?_ because then Morgana might do something violent. Not that he’s afraid of his stepsister or anything. 

“Anyway, Lance is on his way over,” Morgana adds after a moment. “You were supposed to go out last night and what with Sophia being hypnotic you didn’t contact him. He’s worried about you. So I thought you could _explain_ all this to him.”

It is, Arthur reflects, probably about time that they told Lance the truth; it has been around _thirteen years_. But he can’t help feeling that Morgana, by dumping all the responsibility on him _right now_ , is probably trying to pay him back for being an ungrateful sod.

He’s not sure whether he deserves it or not.

^

The sofa is trying to eat him, Merlin thinks. He’s not feeling entirely rational right now, since his brain is basically full of two things. One: _oh God, Arthur Pendragon is so gorgeous that he should be locked up for his own good_ , and two: _I fucking hate Arthur Pendragon, he is a prat_. And the sofa is very big and made of slippery black leather and is very squashy and Merlin doesn’t think that he’ll ever manage to get back up again.

He is flicking through a gigantic and heavy book he found on the coffee table; apparently Arthur or Morgana has some kind of extreme fondness for elephants because the book is full of pictures of the animals doing… elephant-y things, frolicking about and spraying water at each other and so on. Then again, Merlin also gets the feeling that he’s the first person to open this book, which sort of implies that maybe they don’t like elephants, in which case why do they have…

Merlin is not feeling at _all_ rational and at some point the gigantic sofa is going to devour him and spit out his bones. He really _hates_ today (oh yes: and _Arthur Bloody Pendragon_ ).

The door opens and Arthur walks in, looking distinctly awkward. Merlin doesn’t particularly want to talk to him right now, since Arthur seems to think very little of him and it kind of _hurts_. Merlin is fairly sure that people who are _only alive because of you_ are not allowed to think anything but wonderful, shiny, fluffy thoughts about you. There ought to be medals and trophies and… certificates and things, not _well, what do you want in return?_ and _are you or your friend attempting to shag my sister?_

Merlin turns a page of the Completely Random Elephant Book over so fast it papercuts his thumb, which doesn’t make him feel any better, and refuses to look at Arthur as the other man sits down in an armchair. He suspects that he’s being childish and also knows he’s got to be careful because Arthur could, technically, _have him fired_ , but he’s still not about to initiate a conversation.

“Look,” Arthur begins, sounding slightly less cocky than he did earlier, when the door bangs open and another ridiculously good-looking man comes in.

Merlin turns to look and, after what is _probably_ only a couple of seconds, reminds himself to close his mouth.

“ _Arthur_ ,” Random Gorgeous Bloke says, sounding relieved. He walks over and pulls Arthur into a tight hug that Arthur returns.

Merlin tries to work out if it’s normal for two apparently straight male friends to touch each other like this, and then remembers that he knows very little about this sort of thing; two-thirds of his friends are Gwen and Morgana, who are female and therefore don’t count in this, and the other third is Will, who Merlin _does_ keep having sex with, in spite of his best intentions. Still, Merlin reflects dispassionately, trying to return his attention to the frolicking elephants, if they actually _are_ a couple then they’re definitely contenders for the prettiest couple _ever_.

“Morgana said that Sophia tried to _kill_ you,” Random Gorgeous Bloke says anxiously. “What _happened_?”

Merlin tries to stare at the page, but the pictures start shifting, the elephants actually start lumbering across the page, and he has to force himself to ease up a little. Glancing up through his eyelashes, he can see Arthur looks _genuinely_ nervous.

“Lance,” he says – so apparently his friend’s name _isn’t_ Random Gorgeous Bloke after all – “Morgana and I haven’t been entirely honest with you. There’s something I need to tell you.” He waves a hand at the big squashy armchairs. “I think you need to sit down.”

A moment too late, Merlin realises exactly what this conversation is going to be about, and decides that he doesn’t want to go through it; it was bad enough when he had to have it with Gwen. He snaps the big heavy book shut and is just about to try and flee when Arthur says, entirely without preamble:

“Morgana can see the future.”

The look on Lance’s face is _priceless_.

“Arthur, I get that last night must’ve been pretty stressful-”

“No,” Arthur cuts him off. “I mean, she can really _see the future_.” He swallows, but keeps going. “She saw Sophia trying to drown me and got there in time to save my life.”

He’s leaving Merlin’s part out, but right now Merlin doesn’t mind. If there was a way to get out of the room without drawing attention to himself then he _would_.

“That’s… that’s great,” Lance says at last. “But what, was it a one-time thing? How long as Morgana been able to see the future?”

Arthur takes a deep breath, and Merlin thinks _oh shit_ , his fingers curling tight around the sides of the book. He starts praying for the sofa to hurry up just _eat_ him already.

“As far as I know, she’s always been able to,” Arthur says.

“Oh,” Lance says, a frown beginning to form on his face. “How long have _you_ known?” he asks Arthur.

Arthur bites his lower lip, looking down at his hands. “Since about a month after our parents got married,” he admits.

Lance draws a sharp breath in between his teeth. “Arthur, that was _thirteen fucking years ago_ ,” he points out, voice starting to tremble.

The silence is horrible, and before Merlin thinks it through he hears himself telling Arthur: “Gwen reacted like this.”

Arthur’s eyes flicker almost incredulously towards him, but Lance is the one who speaks. “Who the hell is _Gwen_?” His frown deepens. “Who the hell are _you_?”

“He’s one of Morgana’s weirdo friends,” Arthur mutters dismissively, and that stings too. “Lance, look, no one knows. Uther doesn’t even know.”

“Apparently _he_ does,” Lance snaps, waving a hand at Merlin, “And _you’ve_ always known. We’re supposed to be best friends, why wouldn’t you and Morgana _tell_ me?”

Merlin tries to come up with something helpful to say, because Lance’s betrayed expression is genuinely horrible to look at, but he’s drawing a blank. Unfortunately, so is Arthur.

Lance’s mouth curls into an ugly, bitter little smile. “I thought we’d got _past_ all that,” he says, getting to his feet.

“Got past what?” Arthur asks almost desperately, getting up as well.

“I’ve spent _years_ trying to prove that I’m just as good as you,” Lance says, voice really shaking now, “Years trying to show that I may not have your money or your breeding but that I’m your equal anyway, and apparently _nothing’s_ changed since I was the scholarship kid you and your bloody mates beat up in the school playground.”

_Oh_. Merlin tries to slip the stupid elephant book back onto the coffee table; he’s got to find a way out of here before it gets even more personal. 

“Lance, you can’t seriously _think_ that-” Arthur begins, voice cracking.

“Have the two of you been laughing at me all this time?” Lance demands. “Laughing at the poor bastard who you’d duped into being your friend?”

“Lance-”

“Wouldn’t it have been easier just to keep trying to kick my head in behind the science building?” 

Arthur grabs Lance’s arm as he makes to turn away. “I _stopped doing that_ ,” he says insistently. “I stopped it because Morgana foresaw-”

Merlin grimaces; he thinks it isn’t his place to tell Arthur that he’s just made a _huge mistake_. Arthur is going to find out for himself in a moment.

Lance has gone pale. “So you only befriended me because your _sister_ told you to?” he asks, voice deadly and quiet.

Arthur realises what he’s just said; pure horror streaks across his face. “No, Lance, it’s not _like_ that!”

Lance wrenches his arm from Arthur’s grasp. “Don’t bother,” he snarls, “Don’t fucking _bother_ , Arthur.”

He storms out. Arthur spares Merlin a look of pure venom before he follows, yelling _Lance!_ Merlin hears the front door slam anyway. He dumps the book and manages to lever himself off the sofa.

In the hall, Arthur is yelling at Morgana. “Are you _happy_ now? Are you fucking _happy_ now? Have you got what you fucking _wanted_?”

Morgana has drawn herself up to her full height and is looking particularly scary and regal. “I thought it was time Lance found out the truth and I thought it would sound better coming from you,” she says calmly. “I didn’t know you were going to make such a bloody mess of it.”

Arthur sighs, the sound coming out tight and angry. “You’re not about to tell me you didn’t _know_ this was going to happen,” he snarls.

Morgana’s mouth twitches nervously, just slightly. “I saw Lance here and you talking to him,” she says. “You woke me up before I saw exactly how it turned out.”

“Oh, yes, right.” Arthur’s mouth twists into a sneer, and Merlin shrinks back into the doorway a little. “Sorry, I should have guessed that _this_ was my fault, since apparently bloody _everything else_ is.”

“Not everything I say is a criticism!” Morgana snaps. “And will you _stop_ taking all this out on me!”

“This is _all your fault_!” Arthur shouts.

Morgana glares at him. “A lot of the reason you’re so angry is that Lance has _rejected you_ ,” she says, voice steady but icy. “So just think that over and stop treating me like your own personal punching bag.”

“ _Stop it_ ,” Arthur hisses, a different sort of expression fleeting over his face.

“I’m not going to stand here and take your abuse just because you can’t cope with the fact-”

“ _Stop it!_ ” Arthur storms down the hall and a moment later a door slams.

Morgana exhales slowly and finally catches sight of Merlin.

“I’m sorry,” he says helplessly. 

Morgana shakes her head. “The consequences of not getting a full night’s sleep,” she tells him, with a thin smile. “Come on, let’s find Gwen and I’ll drive you both home.” She glances over her shoulder, down the hall. “It’s only going to get uglier from hereon out.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Uther puts his foot down, Merlin exercises his self-control, and Edwin takes things too far.

_If you were everything you say  
Things would be different today  
And if you were everything you swear  
We wouldn’t be beyond repair._  
\- Aimee Mann

 

After a week, Uther has to intervene.

They’re not children any more – well, all right, Morgana has to concede that sometimes they do _act_ like they are – but nonetheless Uther Pendragon has the ability to have both herself and Arthur shuffling their feet awkwardly and feeling about twelve. Still, she has discovered that Uther has this effect on most of his employees, who _didn’t_ grow up with him, so it’s probably just a special abnormal power he has.

Uther sits at his gigantic desk in his glass-walled office, having a discussion on speakerphone with one of their overseas affiliates. Morgana shifts uncomfortably on one of the chairs set outside the office for People Who Are Waiting To Be Verbally Tortured By Uther Pendragon, staring down at her Manolos and reminding herself that she knows how the majority of this discussion is going to _go_ ; there’s no reason to feel nervous at all. 

Still, although she kind of knows what’s going to happen it doesn’t mean that she doesn’t have to _live through it_ first, and Uther is capable of the most _terrifying_ facial expressions. Morgana and Arthur have pale imitations that work perfectly well on other people, but Uther is the lord and master of the Pendragon Eviscerating Death Glare. It makes interns cry on a regular basis and, on average, makes about three staff members quit per year. The thing should be _patented_.

The lift dings to her right, and Arthur steps out. Morgana makes a show of examining her manicure to avoid looking at him; she’s been staying at Claridge’s the last few days, waiting for all this to blow over. Unfortunately, Arthur is being characteristically stubborn, Morgana refuses to apologise for something that is _in no way her fault_ , and Lance will not return her calls, so they’re rather stuck in a rut of resentment and simmering fury.

Arthur sighs and slumps in the other chair, straightening his tie and fiddling with his cufflinks. Arthur’s daddy issues are so extreme they’re not even slightly funny; Morgana has spent most of her life watching Arthur strain to be good enough and, more often than not, be shot down in flames. Uther _is_ proud of his son; but he’ll never bloody admit it. Morgana has had more arguments with her stepfather about this than she’s willing to remember; she’s certainly lost the majority of them.

“Is Lance talking to you yet?” she asks softly, nervously smoothing the edge of her skirt; Arthur isn’t the only one who wants to look as perfect as possible when going in to see Uther. Not that Morgana will _ever_ confess to being intimidated by her stepfather.

Arthur lets out a breath between his teeth, but remains silent.

“Gosh, Arthur, you’re so _chatty_ today, I just can’t get a word in edgeways.” Morgana risks a proper look at him; his mouth is set in a firm line, and he looks as though he hasn’t slept in several days.

“I don’t see the fucking point in saying _anything_ ,” Arthur mutters, after she’s stared pointedly at him for a while. “You’ve already foreseen _everything_ I say or do; I don’t know why I have to bother filling in the blanks for you.”

“Very mature,” Morgana mutters. 

“I’m not the one who deliberately made me lose my _best friend_ because I accidentally insulted some mad friend of hers,” Arthur points out sharply.

Morgana refuses to rise to the bait; Uther is frowning at them, though he’s still talking on the phone, and the last thing they need is for him to see them yelling at each other.

“You are an ungrateful sod,” she says calmly, quietly, “And it’s _your_ fault we’re here. So I’d shut up if I were you, because you don’t have a leg to stand on.” 

Arthur’s mouth twitches with anger. “So you’re going to go in there and swear to my father that all of this is down to _me_?” he demands, clearly struggling to keep his voice low.

“I will if you’re about to make _me_ out to be the villain,” Morgana responds steadily. 

“We can’t tell him the truth,” Arthur mutters, after a moment. “So all he’s going to get are the things _I_ did wrong, which is hardly fair, Morgana.”

“ _I_ haven’t done anything wrong,” Morgana points out archly.

“Oh, _fuck off_ ,” Arthur snaps, folding his arms across his chest.

“I saved your life. I invited your best friend over so you could reassure him. God, my crimes weigh so _heavily_ on my conscience.”

Arthur scowls. He’s incapable of admitting to being wrong, getting an apology out of him is an uphill struggle, and he’s a bloody _stubborn_ man. Morgana is willing to concede that she’s pretty damn stubborn herself, but Arthur could win sodding medals for sheer obstinacy.

“Give me an inch, Arthur,” Morgana says quietly; not quite begging, but insistent nonetheless. It’s perfectly within her power to walk into that office, tell Uther that Arthur is being a twat and it’s _all_ down to him, and watch Uther tear a strip off his son. She could do that, but she won’t. She never _does_.

Arthur’s mouth shifts, just slightly, like he’s gritting his teeth. Morgana resists the urge to remove her left shoe and throw it at him; for one thing, these are _Manolo Blahniks_ and have sadly not been designed for attacking irritating stepbrothers, and for another, Uther would see her doing that and she would instantly lose the moral high ground. Morgana likes having the moral high ground; it makes being a condescending bitch that bit _easier_.

Uther catches her eye through the glass and nods slightly; Morgana swallows against a rush of anxious nausea, and gets to her feet. Arthur follows her into the office, and they sit down on the other side of Uther’s desk.

Her stepfather has acquired an antique-looking letter opener in the shape of a sword. It looks sharp, and Morgana forces herself to remember that Uther _does_ love them and will not actually _physically hurt them_.

When she finally raises her gaze from Uther’s obsessively neat desk, Morgana finds the man himself has steepled his fingers and is gazing at her and Arthur with a patient air. The _I really have all day and will quite happily sit here for as long as it takes until you both tell me the truth and we have sorted this all out to a level that I am happy with_ look that is simultaneously reassuring and unsettling.

“So,” he says.

Arthur’s left hand twitches on his knee.

“I understand that the two of you cannot get along every minute of every day,” Uther tells them quietly, “And I admit I’d be worried if you did. But I think you’ll both agree with me when I say that this has got _entirely out of hand_.”

It’s amazing how Uther Pendragon can sound friendly and benevolent and simply concerned about his family, and yet there’s an undertone of malevolence hiding just beneath the surface. It’s something that never fails to impress Morgana.

“You are not _children_ ,” Uther adds. “Arthur, you are _twenty-four years old_ next month. Will you still be ignoring your sister for days at a time when you’re thirty?”

_Very possibly_ , Morgana thinks, but doesn’t say it aloud.

It would be entirely too easy to dismiss Uther as heartless and cold and a good businessman but a crap father-figure, and maybe Morgana _would_ do that except for what happened after her mother died. Uther had never had that much time for Morgana – but then again he hadn’t had that much time for Arthur either – and her powers had been choked either by uncertainty or grief because she couldn’t tell what would become of her after her mother finally succumbed.

A week after the funeral, Uther had called Morgana to his study; a large, wood-panelled room on the top floor of the Pendragon Mansion. He’d sat her down by the fireplace and made her tea and been quiet and gentle and thoroughly confusing.

“You know, of course, that you’re independently wealthy now,” he’d said, which was perfectly true. “And now you’re sixteen, if you wish, you can leave here and live on your own.”

Morgana had felt suddenly faint, the room spinning around her, and before she could really register what was going on Uther was knelt on the floor before her armchair, his hands curled around her elbows to steady her. 

“It would mean a lot to me if you’d like to stay here,” he’d murmured. “I know Arthur views you as a sister, and although I understand that I could _never_ replace your father…”

Morgana had, at this point, buried her face in his shoulder and cried for a while, and Uther just held her and stroked her hair and not said anything at all for a reassuringly long time.

She’s never told anyone about that afternoon in his study, but it’s something she’s _needed_ to remember, from time to time. And it’s also given her the courage to stand up to Uther when required; she can’t be as scared of him as _everyone else in the universe_ is because she knows that, somewhere underneath it all, he is a lovely, lovely man.

Not that he’s looking particularly _lovely_ right now, his steely _we are going to sort this out if I have to prod you for hours with my dangerous-looking letter opener_ look pinning them both to their seats. 

“You are both aware that I am in negotiations to buy out the Avalon Corporation,” he says. Arthur’s hand twitches again, and Morgana crosses her legs defensively. “It is becoming noticeable that… a rift has developed between the two of you. How can I be expected to prove there will be equilibrium within my company if my own family is refusing to communicate?”

In times of crisis, Uther _always_ ends up falling back on the old _and how does this make my company look?_ schtick. It annoys the hell out of Arthur, but Morgana can see through it to the real emotions underneath that Uther cannot and will not confess to, so she puts up with it.

Uther frees them from his piercing gaze while he picks up his shiny new letter opener and turns it over a couple of times in his hands. Morgana is _ninety percent_ sure that he’s not threatening them with _actual injury_ , but then Uther Pendragon _is_ world-renowned for being unpredictable.

“Neither of you came to Sunday lunch this week,” he says, in a voice of false nonchalance.

_Oh dear fucking God_. It’s the only tradition the Pendragon family has; they all meet up and have lunch together on a Sunday in order to share censored versions of their weeks. It’s not much, but it’s _what they do_ , and at least one of them has to be there every week. There are _no excuses_. Morgana feels the bottom drop out of her stomach, and she immediately turns to look at Arthur. He’s already glaring incredulously at her, and they stare at each other with a mixture of fury and guilt.

“You _idiot_!” Morgana hisses.

Arthur flushes. “According to you, I’m the one who _specialises_ in being petty and idiotic,” he snaps. “Of course I’d avoid running into you. What the hell were _you_ thinking?”

“What was _I_ thinking? _You_ threw the bloody drawer from your bedside table at me when I went to try and talk to you! Of course I wasn’t going to be in the same room as you!”

Uther sighs pointedly. They both shut up. 

“I would like to know what is going on,” he says, in a tone of precarious calm. “I would like to know what is going on _right now_.”

A nasty little voice in Morgana’s head is telling her to drop Arthur _right in it_ , but she also knows that there will be no coming back from that. And really, Arthur _is_ a prat and an idiot but she already knew that and this is not _actually_ his fault, loathe as she is to admit it. Well; _most_ of it isn’t his fault.

“Arthur has had an argument with Lance,” she begins, since Arthur is looking horribly helpless and is apparently not about to say anything to save the day. 

Uther remains looking impassive, but Morgana knows that her stepfather has _never_ really liked Lance. It’s not something he’s ever come out and _said_ , but it’s always been implied.

“I fail to see how that is relevant,” Uther says.

“I… may have inadvertently said some things that exacerbated the situation on both sides,” Morgana lies smoothly, though she can’t stop herself from twisting her skirt nervously in her right hand. She and Arthur have one unspoken rule: they may do what they like to each other in the name of being _siblings_ and therefore being _entitled to make each other’s lives hell_ , but _Uther never ever finds out_. He always takes these things way too seriously and it tends to get intense and a bit scary. Kind of like now, actually. “I won’t bore you with the details,” she adds, “But Lance won’t speak to either of us and understandably Arthur isn’t very happy with me…”

“…And it’s all got a little petty and out of hand,” Arthur finishes. Morgana shoots him a grateful look; if they get started on the penitence right now Uther might stop _looking_ at them. 

“I see,” Uther murmurs. Mercifully, his death glare eases up a little. With any luck, he won’t be too angry with them; he doesn’t like Lance so Morgana’s supposed actions will be forgiven, but he does understand that Lance is _very_ important to Arthur so that should just about exonerate him. 

It’s taken years, but they’ve finally started to figure out exactly which combination of buttons to press.

“I’m so sorry about missing Sunday, Uther,” Morgana says. “It was childish and we shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”

“It will never happen again, father,” Arthur adds.

“You’re bloody well right it won’t,” Uther tells them both severely, but there’s a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth so Morgana thinks that they’ve probably got away with it. Then he suddenly looks stern again. “Is there anything you need to say to _each other_?”

Uther does tend to treat them as though they’re about _five_ , but Morgana has to admit that the process does, frustratingly, seem to work.

“I fucked up, Arthur,” she says, turning to face her brother. “I really wasn’t setting out to hurt you.”

Arthur sighs, but the smile he gives her does seem to be genuine. “I know,” he tells her. “And… I probably shouldn’t have thrown a drawer at you.”

Morgana shrugs. “At least we know I have excellent reflexes; next time someone tries to take my head off _I will be ready_.”

Uther is watching them with a patient and paternal air, and has put the pointy sword-shaped letter opener back where it belongs. Morgana is more relieved than she’s ever going to admit.

“You can both go,” he tells them. When they get up to leave, he adds: “And I’d rather not have to do this _again_.”

His voice contains just a hint of a steely threat. Morgana _loves_ her stepfather; so affectionate, yet so sinister. It’s a truly admirable combination, and one that she and Arthur have _just not perfected_ , no matter how many hours of diligent practice they put in.

In the corridor, waiting for the lift, Arthur chews his lower lip and doesn’t look at her for a while. “I think we’ve become over-reliant on your precognition,” he says at last. “Apparently I don’t know how to cope with the unexpected any more.”

“Join the club,” Morgana murmurs. “Still, I should probably have ignored my dream and told Lance not to come over until later. Common sense, you know?”

Arthur smiles slyly at her. “So you’re admitting that it was _partially_ your fault.”

Morgana shrugs. “It was still _largely_ your fault.” The lift dings, and they both walk in. “Lunch is on me,” she offers.

Arthur nods. “All right.”

“And then,” Morgana adds, “You can help me get all my stuff back from Claridge’s.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say ‘no’. It’s about as close to the word _sorry_ as either of them are ever going to get, and it’s enough.

^

“Wow,” Gwen says appreciatively.

“I told you,” Merlin says, shoving her slightly. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“You said Lance was ‘bloody gorgeous’,” Gwen tells him. “You did not use the phrase ‘fucking Adonis’, which I would probably have done.”

Merlin smiles, scrolling down the page on his laptop. He and Gwen are currently lying on his bed – his is currently the only room in the flat that will connect to the internet, because basically everything about their home is _crap_ – crammed way too close together. Merlin has Gwen’s elbow digging into his ribs and her hair tickling his nose, but it’s all for a good cause, so he doesn’t mention it.

“What exactly are you going to do?” Gwen asks after a moment, annoyingly sensible. “Are you going to friend request him and then write on his wall _hey, I’m Morgana’s weird friend, you might remember me because I was there when you had a very personal fight with your best friend-slash-boyfriend. Want a coffee?_ ”

“No,” Merlin says patiently. “And if I _do_ , I’m at least going to write _want a shag?_ ”

Gwen rolls her eyes. “Merlin, I say this in the most affectionate way possible, but Lance is _out of your league_. He is, to all intents and purposes, out of _everyone’s_ league. Look at him. He is not going to shag you.”

Merlin pouts. “You are a _crap_ best friend.”

“Morgana would tell you the same thing,” Gwen points out. “And Will… well, I’m not sure what Will would do but it would probably involve inappropriate groping. You might as well stick with me.”

Merlin clicks on another of Morgana’s photo albums. “Fine,” he murmurs at last, “I might as well. You’re quite nice.”

“I _am_ quite nice,” Gwen agrees cheerfully. They scroll through a few more photographs tagged _Lance Du Lacque_ before she finally sighs and says: “Merlin, I know you’re attempting to be selfless here and get Lance talking to Morgana and Arthur again, but seriously, _are_ you doing this in an attempt to seduce him?”

“No!” Merlin protests. “And I think I resent that accusation.”

Gwen stays quiet, clicking through more photographs, before turning to look at Merlin and saying: “Yes, but we have now seen the man’s arse in jeans. From several angles. And it’s quite, well, you know.”

“He and Arthur should make a calendar of some kind,” Merlin mumbles, before he’s really aware of saying it.

“Oh dear God,” Gwen says. And then she thinks about it; he can see her eyes widening slightly. “Oh dear _God_.”

A couple of clicks later finds a picture of Arthur and Lance at a party of some kind, laughing in an irritatingly aesthetically pleasing fashion. 

“All right,” Merlin says, “If you had to. Arthur or Lance.”

“You are such a _teenage girl_ ,” Gwen murmurs. But Merlin continues to look at her, until she blushes and sighs. “Lance, probably. Because he might not be a twat the morning after.” She fixes Merlin with a firm look. “What about you?”

“Oh, Lance, of course,” Merlin says quickly, but his eyes are drawn back to the picture on the computer screen, the way light glints off golden hair, and he has to forcibly remind himself that a) Arthur Pendragon is a _dick_ , b) Arthur Pendragon almost definitely thinks that Merlin is _insane_ , and c) Arthur Pendragon clearly _despises_ Merlin.

Gwen gives him that horrible shrewd look she has, the _I’ve known you since we were four and with the exception of your Weird Unnatural Powers you’ve never been able to hide anything from me_ , and Merlin tries to look innocent.

“Are we done?” Gwen asks at last, turning back to the laptop. “Are we done with the thinly-veiled stalking?”

“I am _trying_ to do a good deed,” Merlin protests feebly. “And if I ask Morgana for Lance’s number it’ll just sound like I’m trying to hit on him – which I’m not, Gwen, _so stop looking at me like that_.”

Gwen sighs. “You’re no fun at all sometimes,” she says. “Look, let’s just google him and get his work contact number.”

This turns out to be a lot quicker than trying to track him down through Morgana’s facebook page, but also has fewer pictures of Art- uh, Lance, and therefore is considerably less fun.

“Really, though,” Gwen says a little later, when they’re in their kitchen drinking tea, “What exactly _are_ you planning to do about Lance? I presume you haven’t told Morgana about this…”

Merlin shrugs, because he really has no idea what he’s going to do; he just gets the feeling that no one should lose their best friend over the Weird Abnormal Abilities that some people just seem to… have. Even if Arthur is annoying and doesn’t really _deserve_ to have friends, especially not ones that look like Greek Gods.

“I’ll figure something out,” he says. “I’m sure I can manage to wing it.”

Gwen puts her head in her hands. She really _has_ known him too long.

^

Over the course of chai lattes the next morning, Morgana explains to Merlin that she and Arthur are talking again and she’s moved out of Claridge’s.

“You couldn’t have stayed another couple of days?” Merlin asks. “I was hoping to come over and have _ridiculously_ expensive room service. And maybe steal a bathrobe. Or two, I think Gwen might want one as well.”

Morgana smiles almost indulgently, reaching over to pull the collar of Merlin’s shirt out from where it’s got caught under his jacket. Merlin is so used to people rearranging his perpetually messy clothing – he does his _best_ , he really _does_ – that he barely notices.

“Just say the word and I’ll send you and Gwen off to Claridge’s for the weekend,” Morgana offers. “And you can steal as many bathrobes as you can _carry_.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “I am not some kind of… underprivileged outreach project for you,” he says without venom. 

Morgana laughs. “All right,” she says, “I won’t buy you pointless weekends in five star hotels.” She tips her head to one side, considering him. “Can I buy you a haircut, at least?”

Merlin touches his hair a little self-consciously. “It’s not _that bad_ ,” he protests feebly. “And you haven’t had a problem with it before now, has it got worse overnight or something?”

“Arthur may have mentioned it,” Morgana says lightly. 

Oh. Merlin frowns. He knows that the first thing Arthur did, upon seeing him in the kitchen, was to flinch at his hair, because that was kind of hard to miss, but _really_. 

“And by ‘mentioned it’ I might actually mean ‘brought it up about _seven times_ ’,” Morgana adds. “He seems mildly fixated.” She takes another sip of her latte. “Oh, and he says to actually _thank_ you for the whole life-saving thing. I’d have made him do it in person, but Arthur is incapable of _getting on_ with people and I thought it might be best if you _didn’t_ have a blazing row.”

Merlin smiles. “We probably wouldn’t have a blazing row,” he offers, “I do try not to argue with people who can _fire me_ on a whim.”

Morgana smiles back; there’s a steely edge to it. “If Arthur fired you on a whim you know I’d do something exquisitely painful to him until you were hired again,” she assures Merlin.

Merlin doesn’t say _you know, you really scare me sometimes_ , but it’s a close thing.

“Thank you,” he says, because there doesn’t seem to be much else to say. They sit in companionable silence for a while, before he gathers all his courage and says: “How are things with Lance?”

Morgana grimaces. “He’s not talking to me _or_ Arthur,” she admits. “He’s not taking it nearly as well as Gwen did.”

“Yeah,” Merlin smiles reminiscently. “She just compared my life to _Heroes_ , it was quite sweet really.”

“Oh, _Heroes_ ,” Morgana says, screwing up her face in disgust.

“Not a fan?” Merlin hazards.

“Did you _see_ what they did to the character with precognition?” Morgana asks.

Merlin did; the sight of a man pinned to the floor with paintbrushes _through his arms and legs_ and also _half his head missing_ was fairly memorable. And also, Isaac was very good-looking, with the being-perpetually-covered-in-paint and the occasional faintly gratuitous shirtlessness, and Merlin and Gwen have missed him a _lot_.

“Point taken,” he says.

When Morgana has swished off to do work or harass Arthur or whatever it is she does all day, Merlin finishes his chai, makes sure his supervisor is nowhere around, crosses every part of his anatomy that can conceivably be crossed – and then uncrosses his fingers so he can dial the phone – and calls up Lance.

It’s not quite as terrifying a conversation as Merlin was expecting it to be; Lance is of course faintly suspicious but, after Merlin explains that he’s really _not_ planning to bring Arthur or Morgana with him and all he wants to do is _talk_ to Lance in a public setting and he’ll even buy him a drink into the bargain, the other man becomes reassuringly receptive.

“It worked,” he tells Gwen, ringing her up on her lunch break to be smug. “I’m meeting Lance in that pub – The Golden Dragon – after work.”

“Do you have condoms, Tic Tacs and clean underwear for tomorrow?” Gwen asks, sounding bemused.

“ _I am not going to have sex with him_!” Merlin insists.

“I’ve heard that one before,” Gwen points out, laughing. “And there I was the next morning, making breakfast for three.”

Merlin hangs up on her.

The thing is, Merlin decides, trying not to have a panic attack in the toilets before he leaves work, is that Lance is _so far_ out of Merlin’s league that the idea of any kind of seducing at all going on is kind of ludicrous. Merlin is perfectly willing to admit that he has very nice eyes, whether they’re blue _or_ gold, and he has a certain charm, but he’s also aware that he doesn’t have the kind of looks that make people walk into doors peering over their shoulders for a second look.

(He knows that Arthur does, because Merlin was in the corridor the time that one of the women on the ninth floor did just that. She got three stitches, and always swore it was worth it.)

It’s sort of gratifying when he walks into the pub and Lance waves him over immediately; he wasn’t really expecting to be recognised, given how he got glanced at maybe _twice_ while Arthur and Lance were having a really _personal_ argument.

“I’m going to assume you’re Merlin,” Lance says, smiling. He has a spectacularly nice smile; sort of crinkly, and Merlin has to forcibly remind himself that swooning went out of fashion a long time ago. And also, if he makes a tit of himself, Gwen will _never ever_ let him hear the end of it. _Ever_.

“Um, yes,” Merlin says. Well, he’s certainly more coherent than he was when Arthur said something similar, though he really has got to get more assertive when replying to his name. He sees a trace of bemusement flash through Lance’s eyes, and decides to make a concerted effort _not_ to come across as a _complete moron_.

Lance buys him a drink, which is good because Merlin kind of really needs one.

“Did Arthur put you up to this?” Lance asks about halfway down his first pint.

“Arthur thinks I’ve got about the same I.Q as porridge,” Merlin says, shrugging. “The only time I met him he offered to buy me a pony and then accused me of trying to shag Morgana.”

The smile on Lance’s face is fond; Merlin assumes that Arthur must get less abrasive with repeated exposure. Or maybe he’s like a disease that you get used to. And _God_ , that thought is quite disturbing. 

“Did Morgana put you up to this?” Lance enquires after a moment.

Merlin just raises an eyebrow in a _Morgana doesn’t delegate; why would she get someone else to do the intimidating for her?_ kind of way.

“Good point,” Lance says. He considers Merlin for a while, and Merlin resists the urge to try and flatten his hair and straighten his collar because it’s not like this is a _job interview_ or a _date_ or anything. “So why are you here?” Lance asks at last. He doesn’t sound particularly accusing; just curious.

“Morgana misses you,” Merlin tells him. “And I think Arthur does too; he tried to fire five people in Accounts before Uther stepped in and pointed out that if those people _did_ get fired it would just make the company look like it’s letting people go and what with the economic situation being _shit_ he doesn’t want to make Pendragon Industries look weak at all.”

Lance’s smile is faintly bitter. “That sounds like Uther,” he says. “All about _appearances_.”

He drains his pint.

“I’m not Arthur _or_ Morgana,” Merlin says, deciding that getting into a discussion about Uther Pendragon will only go down a really inadvisable road, and also possibly end with Lance getting alcohol poisoning, so it’s time to change the subject, “But I think I can help anyway.”

Lance raises an incredulous eyebrow in a look that’s eerily like Morgana’s.

“Can you see the future too?” he asks.

“Actually,” Merlin corrects him, “I can move objects with my mind.”

And, just to prove a point, moves Lance’s empty glass from one side of the table to the other, levitates a beer mat, and – for scientific purposes only, _honestly_ – undoes three buttons on Lance’s shirt.

Lance’s delighted expression is somewhat similar to the one Will had when Merlin told him, and the look Arthur had on his face when Merlin got himself raspberry jam without touching anything. Merlin hasn’t exactly _told_ a lot of people about his powers, but the men always react the same.

“That’s _unbelievably cool_ ,” Lance says, with feeling, as Merlin reluctantly does the buttons on his shirt back up again. “I’m buying you another drink for that.”

Merlin is still nursing his first one, but lets Lance go up to the bar and come back with two more pints anyway.

“Look,” he says, deciding that he should just get down to the point, “I’ve been able to do this all my life. I told one of my friends when I was seven, but my other friend – my _best_ friend – I didn’t tell for eighteen years. And I’ve lived with her for the last three.”

Lance’s face has the memory of betrayal on it, now they’ve moved on from the fun _illogical abilities_ bit and into the _your best friends lied to you_ bit. But Merlin is determined to do this, for reasons he still hasn’t adequately defined to himself, even though Gwen keeps giving him _looks_ that are really far too knowing.

“Why?” Lance asks. “Why wouldn’t you _tell_ her? Something that’s such a fundamental part of who you are… why would you _hide_ that from someone you care about?”

Gwen didn’t ask these questions, just sent him off to group therapy, and Merlin finally reflects that he got off lightly. At the time, he thought it was a lousy punishment, but now he realises that he could have had to have _this_ conversation with her, and that would have been infinitely worse.

“I wanted to be more than that,” Merlin says, and he doesn’t know what he’s saying until it’s actually pouring out of his mouth. “I didn’t want to be defined as _the guy who can move things with his mind_. Yes, it’s useful, and fun, and important to me, but I’m so much more than that.” He thinks some more. “And also, I know it sounds lame, but it is fucking _impossible_ to drop into conversation.” Merlin twists his fingers together awkwardly, staring at them knotting in his lap. “Plus, after a while, it kind of seemed like whichever way it came out it was going to sound bad. It became easier just _not to say_ rather than to admit I’d spent over a decade lying.”

Lance thinks this over, doing a thoughtful twisting thing with his mouth that Merlin doesn’t look at because otherwise he might forget he promised himself not to embarrass himself unduly in front of Lance.

“You do realise how completely and utterly _lame_ all that sounds,” Lance says, after a while. Merlin opens his mouth to protest, but Lance cuts him off with a disarming smile. “No, I mean, it makes sense and I get it, I do, but those really are _dreadful_ excuses. They’re probably really important to you and Morgana and maybe even Arthur, but to those of us who _aren’t_ superheroes, those reasons are _crap_.”

Gwen did say something similar to that, drunk and cross; she’s basically forgiven Merlin, but it’s there deep underneath, worming away as she tries to work through the depth of his betrayal. And he’ll feel guilty about it for, ooh, _forever_.

“I’m not a superhero,” he says inanely, at last. “I’d look dreadful in lycra, for one thing.” He swallows. “You know.”

In spite of being friends with Arthur and Morgana, Lance is clearly considerably less bitchy than most people Merlin knows, because all he does is smile at him, rather than making a comment on Merlin’s tendency to say random and mad things for no apparent reason. It’s a welcome reprieve.

“Did your friend hurt you when you told her?” Lance asks, looking interested.

“No,” Merlin says. “Well, she got all quiet and determined and forced me into going to a support group for people with abnormal abilities, but really, she was surprisingly ok about the whole thing.”

“She’s evidently a better person than I am,” Lance tells him, a smirk playing about his mouth. “Because I’ve spent most of the last week wanting to rearrange Arthur’s face.”

Merlin, to his credit, does not say: _oh, really, don’t do that_ , because that implies a certain level of _commitment_ to his horrible, _horrible_ crush on Arthur Pendragon that he’s really not willing to give. 

“I wouldn’t worry,” he says instead, “Gwen’s a better person than, you know, most people. It’s just one of those things you have to get used to.”

Lance laughs, but his expression becomes really serious a moment later. “So what are you suggesting I do?”

“Well,” Merlin sighs, “You just have to get over it. I know, it’s shitty advice and it sounds awful and it probably comes across as smug when I say it, but tomorrow Morgana will still be dreaming the future and she’ll still have lied to you for over a decade about it. So either you decide you still want to be in her life, and in Arthur’s, or you decide that the last however many years mean nothing, and you cut them out completely.”

Lance stares at him for a minute. “You know, for an inoffensive guy who seems to have difficulty remembering his own name, you can be surprisingly _blunt_.”

“I’m in line for a promotion,” Merlin sighs, and drinks some more of his pint. “I don’t _actually_ have the I.Q of porridge. Honestly.”

Lance clinks his glass against Merlin’s. “Good to know.”

One thing that has been abundantly clear since Merlin was about fourteen is that he is a dreadful lightweight. It made uni fun in a traumatic sort of way, and Will has always used it to his advantage, though Merlin forgives him for it because he’s never done anything with Will while drunk that he hasn’t _also_ done while sober. Which is he fully aware does not actually redeem him, but that’s an argument for a different day.

Lance holds his drink considerably better, but does seem to be intent on getting drunk anyway. Merlin lets him, if only because he suspects the last week has been pretty _awful_ for the poor guy. And, he learns, as Lance starts to lose a few of his inhibitions, he has the most _fantastic_ stories about Morgana and Arthur as teenagers; stories Merlin will never be able to pass on or even reference because otherwise Morgana will probably do something painful and lingering to him, but they’re interesting things to know anyway.

The story about the three of them lost and naked in Bruges should probably be made into a movie, or at the very least some kind of ITV Drama.

“I like you, Merlin,” Lance informs him with a lopsided smile a couple of hours later, when Merlin has told him the nearly-braining-Will-with-a-clock story, along with a couple of other stories that show his Potentially Magical Powers are not all they’re cracked up to be.

Merlin mentally recites _he’s straight he’s straight he’s straight_ for a moment, follows it up with _Morgana will kill you, you know she will_ , and finishes up with _and he’s Arthur’s best friend so he’s probably got some kind of dickish personality trait that he’s kept hidden so far_. He really has got better self-control than Gwen ever gives him credit for.

“I think we should get you a cab,” Merlin says. 

Lance nods, with a sleepy smile that should probably be outlawed because it _actually makes Merlin’s knees weak_ , which is just _not right_. “That’s a good idea.”

Merlin checks his watch, and realises that it is actually a lot later than he thinks it is; nearing eleven. “And you’re going to call Arthur in the morning?”

Lance nods. “Well, I will if Galahad puts me through, anyway.” He smirks at Merlin, and drops his voice to a very loud whisper. “He’s Arthur’s PA. He’s been trying to get in Arthur’s pants for _years_ , but he’s being way too subtle about it.”

Merlin knows he shouldn’t, but does anyway. “So _is_ Arthur gay?” he asks.

Lance shrugs. “Morgana seems to think so. Arthur doesn’t seem to have an opinion. You kind of have to spell things out very clearly for him.” His smile lurches across his face again. “I’ve been telling Galahad for _months_ that Arthur doesn’t actually _know_ he’s flirting, he really should just get naked across the desk at some point.”

“Um,” Merlin says eloquently. Lance has not mentioned any feelings for Arthur on his part, and even kind of drunk has failed to bring up the fact Arthur is _blatantly in love with him_ , which sort of implies to Merlin that maybe Arthur isn’t the only one who needs things spelt out for him. “Cab. We should put you in one.”

Lance is warm and heavy and smells annoyingly good underneath the alcohol; he gives Merlin a crushing but apparently heartfelt hug before he gets into his taxi, and Merlin is dignified and does not even try to grope him. The minute the cab is safely out of sight, he pulls out his mobile to call Gwen.

“Hey,” he says, when she answers, “I just put Lance in a taxi, and even though he is drunk and really pretty I did not take advantage. How’s that?”

“I’m impressed, Merlin. We’ll have to discuss it at length later,” she says dryly, but her voice is shaking just slightly, and Merlin’s stomach clenches.

“Gwen, what’s happened?” he demands, the smile dropping off his face.

“It’s… it’s all right, Merlin,” she stammers. “But you need to get in a cab to Morgana and Arthur’s home, and you need to do it now, all right?”

“I don’t have enough cash on me,” Merlin says. “I’ll just get the bus-”

There’s a pause, and then a voice that sounds weirdly like Arthur’s yells in the background: “Tell him we’ll pay. Just get him in a bloody taxi.”

Well, Merlin reflects, waving his hand frantically at an approaching black cab, that isn’t a good sign.

^

Gwen looks very small and lost on their sofa, hands wrapped around the mug of tea Arthur made her. Morgana will say this for her brother; he is a gentleman above all other things. There isn’t a lot to say and anyway they’ve got to wait for Merlin to get here before they start discussing things in great detail.

“I’m so sorry, Gwen,” she murmurs anyway.

Gwen frowns. “Why are you sorry?” she asks. “I’d be _dead_ right now, if it wasn’t for you.”

The thought doesn’t really make Morgana feel better. After all, if she hadn’t been tired and fallen asleep on the sofa watching television, she would never have had her vision, and then…

Morgana shivers, and no one says anything. Arthur is looking a mixture of thoughtful and angry, standing by the window and staring down at the street below. Gwen is curling into herself; the confident, bubbly woman Morgana met a little over a week ago repressed by fear. Morgana herself finds her attention caught by yet another fucking stupid coffee table book; this one on _frogs_. She’s reasonably certain that she and Arthur didn’t buy a book on frogs during their initial Amazon splurge, which means that Arthur was drinking and clicking while she was living at Claridge’s.

She dreads to _imagine_ what other things he might have bought; maybe she’ll ask some time that isn’t _now_.

“Merlin’s here,” Arthur announces, turning away from the window. “I’ll go and get him.”

In the five minutes it takes Arthur to go downstairs, pay the cab driver, and come back upstairs with Merlin, Morgana paces, trying to work out what she needs to say. Trying to work out what it all _means_. Gwen sits very still for a while, and then puts the remains of her tea on the coffee table beside the stupid frog book. Neither of them speak; the tension is palpable.

Eventually, the door opens and Merlin practically comes running into the room.

“Gwen?” 

Finally, Gwen’s stoic expression slips and she gets up from the sofa, flinging her arms around her friend. Merlin hugs her back, looking scared and confused. For a minute, Morgana thinks that Gwen is going to burst into tears, but she seems to regain control and tugs Merlin to sit with her on the sofa. Morgana sits down in an armchair opposite, and a moment later the front door closes and Arthur comes to join them.

“What’s happened?” Merlin demands, voice shivering with anxiety.

Gwen has clasped both his hands with hers, but she doesn’t seem to be able to speak. Morgana knows it’s got to be down to her.

“I’m not sure how to tell you this,” she begins at last. “But… Edwin tried to kill you tonight.”

Merlin knows everything there is to know about Edwin; Morgana told him weeks ago. He frowns, squeezing Gwen’s hands tighter. 

“But I’m fine,” he says. “I don’t understand.”

“He didn’t do a very good job of it,” Arthur mutters.

Gwen takes a shuddering breath. “Merlin, he set fire to the flat,” she tells him.

Merlin’s mouth drops open; he seems to be almost speechless with horror. “ _What_?” 

“I saw it,” Morgana says. “I only wish I’d seen it earlier; if I hadn’t fallen asleep on the sofa…” But she can’t let herself think about that possibility; she _can’t_.

“Morgana called me up,” Gwen says. “I had ten minutes to get out of the flat.” She gives Merlin a weak smile. “I grabbed everything important that I could, and Morgana and Arthur came to get me.”

Merlin nods, looking numb. “And then-”

“The whole block of flats went up,” Morgana continues, because Gwen doesn’t seem to be able to. “Edwin just… set fire to the lot.” 

The building just _combusted_ ; flames were leaping out of all the windows with no discernable starting point. They called the fire brigade, of course, and amazingly there were survivors. Morgana can’t even begin to imagine _how_ there were survivors, but somehow there were.

Merlin isn’t crying, but his eyes are glittering. Gwen wraps her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Gwen,” he mumbles, voice breaking, “I’m so, so sorry. I’m just… so _sorry_.”

Gwen inhales, breath shuddering. “Don’t be stupid, Merlin,” she says. “It’s not your fault.”

For a while, they sit there entwined on the sofa, and Morgana doesn’t say anything and doesn’t look at Arthur. Eventually, Merlin shifts and Gwen lets go of him.

“I don’t understand,” Merlin says. “Why would Edwin try to kill _me_?”

Morgana has been struggling to piece this together for the last hour, but it’s only now that something she’d completely forgotten slots into place in her head.

“Because he didn’t succeed when trying to kill me,” she says, slowly, trying the words out.

Merlin and Gwen frown, but it’s Arthur who snaps: “ _What_?”

The theory forming in Morgana’s head feels fragile, like it might crack if she thinks about it too hard. She shuts her eyes, concentrating.

“He sent me flowers,” she murmurs. 

“Lilies,” Merlin says, clearly remembering the event too. “But you gave them away.” There’s a pause, and then he draws in a sharp breath. “Oh God.”

Morgana opens her eyes again, to find Arthur and Gwen looking frustrated and confused.

“Morgana, this isn’t really the time for being cryptic,” Arthur says sharply.

“The woman I gave the flowers to,” Morgana explains, “She died three days later. Of an apparent brain haemorrhage.”

“You think they’re connected?” Gwen asks.

“I _know_ they are,” Morgana tells him. “Edwin can create fire, but he’s a scientist, and he’s been experimenting. He’s created these things – he calls them _beetles_ , but they’re not really – that can kill someone without any evidence. He slipped one into the flowers. He must have done.”

Gwen reaches for Merlin’s hand again, squeezing tightly.

“And you went and hung out with these people _once a fortnight_ ,” Arthur says, in a voice of disbelief.

Morgana glares at him, and he glares back; evidently they are going to have a heated discussion about this at some point, but this isn’t the time.

“All right,” Merlin begins, “But why is Edwin trying to kill either of us?”

Morgana shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she admits. 

The silence is strained and awkward and scared, and Morgana hates that it’s come down to this. 

“Ok,” she says firmly, deciding that it’s late and they’re all terrified now, “What I _do_ know is that Edwin isn’t going to try anything more tonight.” She manages a smile. “Merlin and Gwen, you can stay here for as _long_ as you like; there’s plenty of space.” Out of the corner of her eye, Morgana sees Arthur open his mouth, but he closes it again a moment later.

“Thank you,” Merlin says, with an attempt at a smile back.

“I think…” Gwen swallows, and continues: “I think I’d like to go and get some sleep now.”

Merlin nods, agreeing with her. Morgana goes to show them where the spare rooms are; they’ve got four bedrooms in the flat, though Merlin and Gwen elect to share one tonight. Morgana wishes that she could say something to make all of this better, but there really isn’t anything.

Gwen catches her hand as she’s about to given them some privacy.

“ _Thank you_ ,” she says sincerely, eyes shining. 

When Morgana gets back to the living room Arthur has evidently been raiding their kitchen cabinets because he’s opened a bottle of whisky and has splashed a lot of it on their inexplicable frog book.

“Good man,” Morgana murmurs, accepting a glass and swallowing it straight down.

“Morgana,” Arthur says after a moment, “What exactly are we going to _do_?”

She holds out her glass for a refill, and notes that her hands are trembling slightly.

“Buggered if I know,” she sighs.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur is less than impressed by Will, a truce of sorts is formed, and Nimueh shows no mercy.

_Everything I always wanted  
Is right there but soon it won’t be  
If fortune favours the brave  
I am as poor as they come._  
\- Editors

“So,” Merlin says, “How exactly am I going to explain this to my mother?”

Will laughs. “By ‘this’, do you mean the fact you and Gwen have nearly been killed by a psychopath with evil powers and so are now living with the incredibly attractive and incredibly rich children of your boss?” He pauses. “I don’t see how your mother would have a problem with _any_ of that.”

Merlin sighs. “I called you for _advice_ ,” he whines, “Be _helpful_.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line for a moment. “Are they paying you and Gwen to be their sex slaves?”

Merlin thinks a dozen inappropriate things, tries not to make a spluttering noise, and eventually manages: “They’re _loaded_ , Will, not _depraved_.”

“Maybe you should tell your mum about the not-sex-slaves thing,” Will suggests. “I think it would definitely set her mind at rest.”

“You are _useless_ ,” Merlin mutters.

“And it’s entirely possible that Arthur Pendragon _is_ depraved,” Will continues, cheerfully ignoring him, “He looks like a smug prick in all his _OK!_ magazine photos.”

“Since when do _you_ read _OK!_?” Merlin demands.

“Lucy at work has them stuck to her locker,” Will replies dismissively. “I want to punch the smug look off his face.” Merlin is trying to come up with something to say in reply when Will adds: “Well, alright, I’d probably shag him first and _then_ punch him, but, you know.” Merlin shuts his eyes. “Is he that implausibly pretty in real life?” Will asks, sounding _way too interested_. 

“Yes,” Merlin admits, and then thinks he probably should have lied because Will starts laughing in a horrible insinuating way and even though Merlin is alone in his room and no one is listening in he starts blushing anyway.

Will’s evil laughter on the other end of the phone makes him blush even more, though Merlin is fully aware that he probably deserves it, and no one else in his life is willing to take the piss out of him to the degree he kind of _needs_.

“Please tell me you’re shagging him,” Will says at last, amusement still colouring his voice. 

Merlin makes a little helpless noise.

“Oh,” Will murmurs. “Oh, you poor, sad sod.” He sighs. “I don’t know why I’m _surprised_ , though, it’s how you operate.”

This cannot escalate because otherwise it will get even more embarrassing and Merlin will not be able to look at Arthur _ever again_ and since they’re living in the same flat things could get incredibly awkward and ridiculous.

“I happen to appreciate his aesthetic qualities,” Merlin says with all the dignity he can muster, “I still think he’s a complete tosser. I don’t actually _like_ him.”

“Well,” Will sighs, “I suppose we should be thankful for small mercies.”

“This is not actually helping me work out what to say to mum,” Merlin points out. “And I’m going to have to tell her something _soon_.”

“Just tell her there was a fire,” Will suggests. “Leave out the fact it was set by an evil supervillain who was trying to kill you, because I know Hunith’s a force of nature but I don’t really see that going down well with her.”

“I don’t want to worry her,” Merlin murmurs.

“Well, she’s going to _get_ worried when she tries to ring your landline and fails to get through,” Will points out a little too reasonably.

Merlin bites his lip anxiously and doesn’t reply.

“By the way,” Will says, “When are you going to invite me to come and stay?”

“Um.”

“Let me come and see your new mansion,” Will wheedles.

“It’s not a mansion,” Merlin protests, “It’s… more a mutated penthouse sort of thing.”

“Let me come and see your mutated penthouse sort of thing then,” Will replies, unabashed. 

Merlin hesitates. It’s been four days since the fire and the realisation that apparently there’s a man out there with the ability to combust things and who wants Merlin and Morgana dead. He’s finally stopped jumping at unexpected noises or people walking past him, and Gwen has started smiling almost naturally again. But, as always when life gets too big and too stupid and too horrible, Merlin has found himself wanting what he _knows_ , and he has missed Will like mad.

“All right,” he says. “How about this weekend?”

“I’ll come on Friday,” Will tells him, “I’ve got to work the Saturday night shift so I’ll go back Saturday morning.” He pauses for a moment. “Seriously, though: are you both all right?”

“Yeah,” Merlin says. “You know Gwen; she’s resilient. And, well, you know me…”

“Too busy being naïve and vague to let anything bother you,” Will teases him.

Merlin rolls his eyes. “ _Yes_ , William, that was _exactly_ what I was going to say.”

Will laughs, but sobers quickly and says: “ _Please_ try not to get yourself murdered before Friday.”

“That is top of my To Do List,” Merlin agrees. “It’s right there above _do some laundry_ and _call my mother_.”

“I can pop in and see her,” Will offers. “When you do call her, I mean. If you think she needs someone to… you know. _Be there_.”

“Thanks,” Merlin says. “I’ll… let you know.”

“See you Friday,” Will says brightly. “Take care of yourself.”

It’s a casual way of saying goodbye, but Merlin gets the serious undertone to the words; Will’s worried, though of course he’ll never come out and _say_ it.

“It’s ok,” Merlin assures him, “I’ll look both ways before crossing the street and everything.”

“ _Wanker_ ,” Will mutters, as Merlin puts the phone down.

He could stay in his disconcertingly large room – beautifully decorated, of course; the whole flat is – but the overwhelming silence – a result of the fact the whole place is sound-proofed – is a little too much at the moment. Instead, Merlin shuffles down the hall to go and see if anyone else is up and about.

Morgana is in the kitchen, laptop sitting on the gigantic round dining table. She glances up from the screen and gives Merlin a smile.

“Hi,” she says. “Want some tea?”

There’s a steaming pot sitting on the table beside her. “Thanks,” Merlin says, sitting down to her left and summoning a mug to him. Morgana doesn’t even bat an eyelid as Merlin does this; but then she’s the one who sees the future every night so of course she has an entirely different definition of _normal_. Merlin pours out a cup of Earl Grey and Morgana pushes a plate with slices of lemon on it for him without looking away from the laptop.

“What are you doing?” he asks curiously, leaning sideways to see what Morgana’s up to. The computer screen is full of pictures of clothes, and he rolls his eyes. “Morgana, Gwen _isn’t_ a doll.”

“But this dress would look so _lovely_ on her,” Morgana protests, enlarging an image of a very pretty yellow summer dress. “I can’t wear yellow, it just fades me out, but it would look sensational on Gwen.”

Morgana does have a point, but Merlin has to put his foot down. “Morgana,” he begins hesitantly, “We agreed to let you buy us some clothes because we didn’t want to be walking around in the same outfit all the time, but we’ve got the basics now. Really, we both have money, we’re not just some little lost puppies you scooped up off the street.”

Morgana gives him a sheepish smile. “All right,” she concedes. “But _please_ let me buy this dress for Gwen; if I can’t have it I want _someone_ to.”

Merlin nods reluctantly. “As long as you don’t _also_ buy the matching shoes you’ve undoubtedly found to go with it.” He sips at his tea while Morgana enters her credit card details. “Where _is_ Gwen?” he adds.

“She’s gone to her room,” Morgana says. When Merlin frowns, she adds; “Don’t worry, I think she’s just genuinely tired. She seems… all right.” Her mouths twists thoughtfully. “You _both_ seem very all right, given the circumstances.” 

Merlin shrugs, feeling a little uncomfortable. He and Gwen decided, that first night, that they had two choices; either they could succumb to terror and misery, or they could rise above it. And _somehow_ , they have managed to be strong and cheerful and more _ok_ about Edwin attempting to burn them alive than they would ever have believed possible before all this shit started.

Morgana seems to know not to push; she finishes her purchase and shuts down the laptop.

“Arthur made me promise not to impulse buy anything,” she explains. “We have this problem with going on Amazon and not thinking it through…”

“Is that where your untouched coffee table books come from?” Merlin guesses.

Morgana nods, smiling a little sheepishly. “They look good, though,” she offers as some kind of defence.

“I don’t know,” Merlin sighs, shaking his head, “You spoilt little rich kids…”

“You make a lot more money than your dress sense implies,” Morgana tells him, a smirk unfurling over her mouth.

“And what exactly is _wrong_ with my dress sense?” Merlin demands.

Morgana gives him a _do I_ really _have to_ tell _you, Merlin?_ look that he pretends not to notice. 

“Where _is_ Arthur tonight, anyway?” he asks. “I’m sure I haven’t seen him wandering about bitching about how Gwen and I are _cramping his style_.”

Morgana flushes. “He only said that _once_ ,” she says quickly, “He really _doesn’t_ mind you and Gwen being here. He’s just…”

“…A cock?” Merlin suggests.

Morgana tips her head in a _that has merit_ sort of way. “He’s just a spoilt brat,” she says lightly. “He doesn’t play well with others, and I’ve sort of given up trying to make a difference.”

“Is he just going to stay away from the flat until Gwen and I leave?” Merlin asks, feeling a little bit depressed about that, though he’s not entirely sure why and he’s certainly not going to think about it in any detail _at all_.

Morgana shakes her head. “No, this is completely normal. He’s probably still at work; he sleeps in his office about three nights a week, sometimes more.” She sighs. “And if he’s not sleeping at work then he’s sleeping in someone else’s bed, so he isn’t usually around that much anyway. Don’t go getting a complex.”

She suddenly looks unbearably lonely, sitting there with her hands wrapped around her mug of tea. Merlin pictures her rattling alone around this gigantic flat and leans over to hug her.

“What was that for?” Morgana asks, when he lets go, but her smile is soft and warm.

Merlin just smiles back, but thinks she understands anyway.

^

“You look _awful_ ,” Lance says, with feeling, on Friday afternoon.

Arthur has drunk five coffees so far today and the caffeine is giving the world a shiny, slippery veneer. 

“Galahad thinks I look fine,” Arthur protests, running a hand through his hair feebly.

“Yes, well.” Lance has a _look_ on his face that Arthur doesn’t understand and doesn’t try to. He throws himself down in the chair on the other side of Arthur’s desk. “There’s this thing called _sleep_ , right, and it turns out it’s kind of important…”

“Sod off,” Arthur murmurs, rolling his eyes. 

Lance smiles, but his eyes flick towards the door to Galahad’s adjoining office. “How’s the manhunt going?” he asks softly.

Arthur grimaces. “Less than wonderfully,” he admits. “I mean, obviously the ‘Super Power Support Group’ or whatever the hell it was called has disbanded, and no one has heard of it. The website’s gone and everything, and I can’t find anyone to talk.” He sighs. “No one seems to _remember_ that it ever existed, which is not a good sign.”

“And what about Morgana?” 

“Oh, you know her; she _thrives_ during crises,” Arthur sighs. “The idea that someone’s out to kill her just seems to fill her with energy. It’s disturbing.”

“I didn’t think she’d be curling up under her duvet and weeping,” Lance agrees. 

“We are going to have to find this Edwin bloke and destroy him, though,” Arthur says, and momentarily wonders _just how literally_ he means that, “Because Morgana can’t accept any floral arrangements until we know they’re not murder attempts, and you know how much my sister loves flowers.”

Lance smiles slightly. “How _is_ she surviving?” he asks, looking amused.

Arthur shrugs. “She’s got her new playthings, she’s perfectly happy,” he replies.

“Merlin’s actually really nice,” Lance tells him lightly. “Once you get to _know_ him.”

This is the _last straw_ ; even Arthur’s _best friend_ has fallen under the spell of the vague, skinny guy with the _physically painful_ hair who has taken up residence in Arthur’s home. “What _is_ it with Merlin?” Arthur demands. “I mean, fine, he’s not actually an obnoxious bastard-”

Lance coughs significantly, and Arthur pretends not to hear.

“-But seriously, he comes across as a complete and utter _idiot_. And not even in an endearing way, because God _knows_ I’ve fucked enough women who weren’t a hundred percent sure about which continent _Sweden_ is in, but in an _irritating_ way.”

He becomes aware that his voice is rising, and reminds himself that this is in no way a situation that requires anger.

“I think Merlin knows where Sweden is,” Lance offers mildly, but he’s looking at Arthur with curiosity on his face. Arthur attempts to look calm and collected and not at _all_ frustrated by the fact Merlin just seems to be collecting a fanclub as he wanders through Arthur’s life. “Wow, Merlin really _does_ get your back up,” Lance observes after a minute. “I thought he was exaggerating, but he really wasn’t.” He raises an eyebrow at Arthur. “Did you _actually_ offer to buy him a pony and then accuse him of shagging Morgana?”

Out of context, it sounds bad. Actually, it sounded pretty bad _in_ context, but Arthur hasn’t yet found a way to apologise to Merlin without it descending into childish bickering.

“He _said_ he wanted a pony!” Arthur wails helplessly. And then Lance’s words sink in properly. “When the hell did he go bitching to you about me?”

“He didn’t ‘go bitching’ to me,” Lance tells him patiently, but he looks uncomfortable and he’s avoiding the question in an embarrassingly obvious way.

“If you’re about to tell me the two of you are having some kind of affair-” Arthur begins.

Lance rolls his eyes. “Arthur, I know you find this _impossible_ to believe, but not _everything_ is about sex.” He fixes Arthur with a firm stare. “I’m only going to say this once: we went for a drink, and he gave me a few reasons as to why someone might choose to hide their superpowers – or their sister’s superpowers, as the case may be – for _over a decade_. Ok?”

Arthur shifts awkwardly, and gets the message loud and clear. And then wonders exactly why he seems to owe _everything_ to Merlin at the moment; they barely talk, occasionally passing in the flat, and yet Merlin seems to have taken everything that means anything to Arthur – up to and including _his own life_ – and grabbed hold of the strings. It’s a strange feeling, and one that makes him feel discomfited and wrong-footed.

“Ok,” he sighs.

Lance seems to be studying him, head tipped slightly to one side, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“How are you holding up?” he asks softly.

Arthur shrugs. He’s running himself ragged at the moment, trying to help his father with the Avalon Corporation buyout, while also trying to track down Morgana and Merlin’s would-be assassin, and while his home hasn’t been burned down he’s still in a little more shock than he wants to admit. Somehow, over the course of the last month, his life seems to have changed completely and utterly; while it still looks the same, it really _isn’t_ the way it used to be at _all_.

“I’m hanging in there,” he lies feebly, and wonders whether it would be pushing it to ring through to Galahad and ask him to bring _another_ coffee. 

“You are so full of shit,” Lance tells him, rolling his eyes in exasperation, and he gets up from his chair to walk around to Arthur’s side of the desk. “Get up.”

Arthur is pretty certain Lance is not about to hit him, so he warily gets to his feet. He’s a little shocked when Lance abruptly pulls him into a hug, and so stands very still, disconcerted.

“Go with it,” Lance mutters, and Arthur obediently hugs him back. And it’s nice; just to stand there for a moment and not have to be strong or do anything for anyone. Lance exhales just before it gets uncomfortable, and steps back. “Better?”

Arthur smiles, and it feels more real than the smiles he’s been plastering on his face for the last week.

“I’m _not a girl_ ,” he snaps, because he’ll never _admit_ that he feels any better at all.

“Good,” Lance replies. “Because we’re going to go out drinking tonight to take your mind off _everything_ , ok?”

Arthur has been sleeping on his sofa for most of the week, and he kind of thinks that it would probably be sensible to go home and talk to Morgana and get some rest, but he looks at Lance’s grin and doesn’t even try to resist.

“You can pay,” he says.

“Of course, because _I’m the son of a billionaire_ ,” Lance agrees. “Oh; _wait_.”

^

When he walks into the flat, Merlin can hear Morgana’s laughter drifting from the living room. He ditches his shoes by the front door, and goes to find out what’s making her sound like that.

Before he even gets to the open door, he can hear Will’s voice: “I mean, not that it affected the relationship at all; they shagged like rabbits for about the next fortnight. And then reassembled furniture together. It was almost sweet.”

From this, Merlin gathers, with a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach, that Will is currently telling Morgana about how Merlin lost his virginity. It had been awkward and kind of painful but quite nice in spite of that; unfortunately, Merlin had managed to mentally remove every single screw in Allan’s wardrobe, and so the whole thing collapsed very loudly shortly after they’d finished. Thankfully, Allan had blamed Ikea, but it was still seriously embarrassing trying to get dressed before Allan’s mum came bursting in to find out if her son had been crushed and killed.

“I told you that story _in confidence_ ,” he tries not to wail, walking in to find Morgana and Will have coffee and cake and have evidently been sprawled in the living room for a while.

“And I’ve never told anyone,” Will replies, “Because of course no one knew about your freaky awesome powers.” His smirk broadens. “It’s ok; I haven’t told Morgana what you did to _my_ bedroom furniture.”

Merlin groans, coming to collapse on the sofa beside Will. “Morgana _isn’t interested_ in my sex life, Will.”

“ _Well_ ,” Morgana begins, until Merlin glares at her.

“Come on,” Will protests, “I haven’t met anyone but your mother who knew about your abnormal abilities, and I was hardly going to dish the dirt to _her_.”

Merlin makes a pained, horrified face. “No, really,” Will assures him, “Because she would probably come after me with something sharp for despoiling her son and everything.”

“You didn’t despoil me!” Merlin protests weakly, and then remembers that _they have an audience_ and instead reaches for some cake.

“Will got here a little early,” Morgana says, unnecessarily, “So I thought I’d entertain him until you got here.” She smiles. “He’s _lovely_.” 

Will has the ability to be effortlessly charming when he wants to be; it’s been frustrating for _all of Merlin’s life_. It’s not that he’s _incapable_ of getting people to like him; it’s just that he’s always had to get people to be charmed by his general air of incompetence, and while it does pay off it can be a little disheartening at times.

“Yeah, he is,” Merlin sighs, as though it’s a difficult thing to admit. He leans over to plant a kiss on Will’s cheek. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says quietly.

The three of them eat ridiculous amounts of cake until Morgana leaves to call Arthur, who is apparently going to go and do something drunken and excessive with his Friday night. 

“Your mutated penthouse sort of thing is _amazing_ ,” Will says with feeling. “Can I come move in too?”

“I’m not sure there’s another spare room,” Merlin points out.

“That’s fine,” Will shrugs, “Their airing cupboard is about the size of my flat, I could shove some towels sideways and live in there.”

“And you don’t think Arthur and Morgana would _mind_ you living in their cupboard?” Merlin asks mildly.

“Morgana thinks I’m _lovely_ ,” Will reminds him. “Arthur… _won’t_ think I’m lovely, but then he doesn’t like you either and you’re still living here.”

It almost stings, coming bluntly out of Will’s mouth like that. Merlin can’t think of a single thing to say in reply, so settles for merely scowling. Will gives him a look that’s close to apologetic, and then his attention is caught by a photograph sitting near the television. It’s Arthur and Lance, laughing at the camera, looking for all the world like male models. Living here really isn’t _good_ for Merlin’s ego.

“Who’s _that_ with Arthur?” Will asks curiously, bouncing off the sofa and going to pick up the framed picture.

“That’s Lance,” Merlin tells him. “You know, I mentioned him. Arthur’s best friend.”

Will looks at the picture for a moment longer, and then turns to Merlin with a disappointed expression.

“You had _that_ drunk and you didn’t so much as try to cop a feel?” he demands. “You bloody idiot!”

Merlin sighs. “Will, I get that you’re not exactly a paragon of… well, anything, but you do know there’s this thing called _integrity_ , right, and I was trying to have it.”

Will rolls his eyes. “Fuck _that_.” He glances back down at Lance. “Seriously, I am ashamed of you, Merlin. _Ashamed_.”

“Gwen was proud of me,” Merlin says, but it just comes out sort of whiny.

“Gwen practically wants a ring before she lets anyone put a hand down her bra,” Will scoffs.

This isn’t _entirely_ true; or at least it hasn’t been for the last couple of years, but Merlin doesn’t bother pointing this out to Will. Besides, there’s something in Will’s tone, and even though he knows he doesn’t really want to know the answer, Merlin still stares at his friend and says:

“Oh, tell me you _didn’t_.”

“We were thirteen,” Will shrugs carelessly. “I had the bruises for _weeks_.”

Merlin doesn’t know why he’s surprised; Will’s a greedy bastard (at least, that’s the reason he’s always given for his bisexuality), which used to really bother Merlin, though it doesn’t any longer.

“No wonder Gwen thinks you’re a wanker,” Merlin tells him with a grin, sprawling beside him on the sofa.

“Oh,” Will says, smirking, “Gwen’s thought I was a wanker since before we even _knew_ that word.”

“Apparently with good reason,” Merlin points out.

Will is hitting him with an undoubtedly expensive cushion while Merlin attempts to fend him off when Morgana comes back in.

“You two are so _sweet_ ,” she says, gathering their cups and plates together. Merlin sends the cushion flying across the room with a quick flex of his fingers, and moves to help her. “How long have you known each other anyway?”

“Since we were about, I don’t know, six months old?” Merlin replies. “ _Forever_ , anyway.”

He doesn’t mention that awkward year when they didn’t speak – when Merlin decided he liked boys and Will decided that was going to be a problem – because the whole thing is resolved and unearthing it again only results in really _nasty_ arguments.

“Arthur’s going to be out all night,” Morgana tells them both. “Lance has got the bright idea that getting him _pissed_ is somehow going to fix everything, so he probably won’t be home.” She offers Merlin a quick, tight smile that tells him _exactly_ how far she agrees with Lance’s idea. “But Gwen’s on her way home and she says she’ll cook.”

Will helps them carry everything through to the kitchen. “Can’t you just order pizza?” he asks.

Merlin watches the corners of Morgana’s mouth tighten, just slightly. “We can’t be too careful,” she says quietly.

“What… _ah_.” Will grimaces as he gets it. The last thing any of them need is Edwin slipping his murderous beetle things into the things they have delivered to the flat. The four of them spent hours going through the boxes of clothing that came for Merlin and Gwen, looking for the apparently tell-tale little specks that would indicate Edwin had poisoned them. They didn’t find anything; but it doesn’t mean that he’s not going to try.

“Welcome to the stupid insanity that is my life now,” Merlin murmurs with a sigh, as he loads the dishwasher.

“Your mutated penthouse sort of thing isn’t going to get burned down while I’m _here_ , is it?” Will asks, a trace of real anxiety in his voice.

“I hope not,” Morgana says lightly.

Will frowns. “I thought you could see the future,” he accuses.

“I _can_ ,” Morgana replies, “Unless it involves Merlin. If he’d been home the night of the fire, I wouldn’t have foreseen it at all, which is why I didn’t find out until it was almost too late.”

Merlin and Morgana have been over this too many times, making themselves feel more nauseous every time. The escape Merlin and Gwen had was really _too_ narrow.

“God,” Will mutters.

Gwen gets home about half an hour later and there’s a lot of shrieking and hugging between her and Will – Merlin has never been able to tell how the two of them really _feel_ about each other and whether the two of them just kind of put up with each other because they both like _him_ – but nonetheless they seem happy to see each other. Gwen makes a decent lasagne for dinner, and then the three of them amuse Morgana by trying to embarrass each other with as many horrific childhood stories as they can dredge up. If Merlin had thought that maybe Will would have had time to tell Morgana the _worst_ of his incriminating stories before he got home, he was clearly wrong. It’s all right, though, because Merlin and Gwen between them have a lot of dirt on Will and in the end they’re almost laughing too hard to eat.

Merlin gets the feeling Morgana likes living in a house full of noise; while of course she and Arthur are devoted to each other – underneath all the sniping anyway – it must be lonely, with him not being at home half the week. In the end, though, Morgana drags Gwen away to show her the picture of the summer dress she’s bought her – since it still hasn’t arrived – and Merlin and Will are left to tidy up the kitchen (which was very probably the girls’ plan all along; Morgana and Gwen being _evil geniuses_ and everything).

“I’m glad you’re here,” Merlin says in the end, because he kind of _needs_ Will to know that. “I’ve really missed you; things have been shit and crazy and _weird_.” It occurs to him that what he’s said might not be entirely complimentary. “Not that I don’t miss you when things _aren’t_ shit and crazy and weird…”

“You’re starting to sound like Gwen at her most flustered,” Will points out mildly, with a smirk.

“I’m going to tell her you said that,” Merlin replies, making a face at him.

“Tell-tale,” Will retorts, in the way he always has since they were about four, throwing a teatowel at Merlin. Merlin flings it straight back at Will’s face by winking at it, making it change direction in midair, and then yelps as Will lunges at him with a half-way murderous look on his face. “You _always_ fight dirty, Emrys, you bloody cheat!”

Merlin grins infuriatingly, backing away. “Just because _you’re_ not a superhero…”

“Oh, you’re going to pay for that,” Will tells him with a smirk, shoving him, because they’ve known each other for so long that it’s impossible not to revert to being silly little boys around each other.

Well, _nearly_ impossible, because Merlin finds himself pushed up against the implausibly gigantic fridge with Will’s mouth on his, and he twines his fingers in the other man’s hair because _this_ is something he _knows_ ; _this_ is something that isn’t new or scary or dangerous. Or maybe it is; Merlin always gets the strangely horrible feeling that, somewhere underneath the jokes and the sleeping with other people and the not seeing each other for months at a time, Will really actually _loves_ him and is kind of _waiting_ for him. And Merlin is perfectly aware that that’s something he can’t give Will, though he’d honestly give him _anything_ if he could, and he doesn’t want to end up breaking his oldest friend’s heart, but it’s going to be awful and it’s going to be inevitable.

Once again, though, it’s something he shoves to the back of his mind.

^

It is six-thirty in the morning when Arthur kind of falls out the taxi, shoving a couple of notes at the driver. He’s fairly sure he’s overpaid by kind of a lot of money, but his brain is buzzing in an I’ve-been-up-all-night-and-the-alcohol-may-not-have-entirely-worn-off-yet sort of way so he’s not actually up to _counting money_. Still, he can feel smug because Lance was barely _standing_ when Arthur shoved him into a cab, though he did drink considerably more than Arthur did.

He’s still in his suit trousers and shirt from work yesterday, though his tie vanished somewhere and so did a couple of the shirt buttons. Arthur shrugs his jacket off and slings it over his shoulder, hooking two fingers in the collar to hold it in place. 

The flat is quiet when he comes upstairs, the hall full of bright morning sunlight. Gwen’s bedroom door has a post-it note stuck to it, saying: _I do not have to work today, so if any of you early risers wake me up I WILL NOT BE RESPONSIBLE FOR MY ACTIONS_. Arthur knows Morgana is going in to help with the Avalon takeover today, because striding about in heels yelling at people is something she specialises in, so will be up and about soon, and as for Merlin… well, Arthur has no idea. Lance, after a little too much tequila, gave Arthur a half-hour lecture on how Merlin is actually not an idiot and Arthur should try and have a proper conversation with him, which was somewhat disturbing. Lance is very good at ‘earnest’, though; Arthur was very close to being persuaded.

Deciding that what he needs above _everything_ is caffeine, because he will have to go to work in just under three hours and his father will verbally castrate him if he turns up actually _looking_ like he’s been out all night, Arthur heads for the kitchen. He’s reasonably certain he can make coffee without inadvertently breaking anything or setting it on fire, so he won’t wake Gwen up, and maybe he could take Morgana some breakfast because she never eats enough and also he’s barely seen her this week.

Merlin and someone Arthur has never seen before in his life are in the kitchen sharing toast and laughing about something.

“Morning,” Merlin says unsettlingly brightly, “Coffee?”

He has a whole cafetiére of coffee sitting in front of him on the table, and at this moment Arthur thinks he might actually love him. Merlin smiles at Arthur’s undoubtedly embarrassingly desperate expression, and floats a mug of it over to him. Arthur takes a sip, and discovers that it is really _good_ coffee, made absolutely perfectly in a way he and Morgana have still not quite got the hang of. He glances quizzically at Merlin’s… companion.

“Oh, I’m Will,” the Random Stranger says, “Merlin’s part-time shag.”

Arthur considers staying and trying to cope with the weird madness of his life now, but instead gives them both a sort of incredulous look, turns around, and walks out of the kitchen again.

He can hear them laughing before the door closes.

Morgana is running around her room wearing full make-up and the black lace underwear Arthur bought her for Christmas last year, but not a lot else.

“So you’re back,” she says distractedly, before giving him an appraising glance. “I like the look; it’s very billionaire playboy.” Arthur dumps his suit jacket over one of her chairs before sitting down and taking another mouthful of coffee. Morgana slides into one of her numerous silk robes before gliding serenely over and stealing his mug. “You look somewhat disturbed,” she observes lightly.

Arthur snatches his coffee back and cradles it protectively against his chest. “Merlin and his _self-confessed_ part-time shag are in our kitchen eating toast!” he says. “Why don’t we just open a hotel and be done with it?”

“I like them living here,” Morgana tells him quietly, heading over to her walk-in wardrobe. She disappears inside, but Arthur can hear her sorting through her clothes. She pokes her head back around the door. “They’re good company for when my brother doesn’t come home _for a week_.”

Arthur grimaces. “Sorry,” he calls.

“It’s ok,” Morgana replies, voice long-suffering, though it comes out a little muffled. A moment later, she comes out wearing a little black dress. “What about this?”

“You look like a hooker,” Arthur informs her bluntly, toeing off his shoes.

Morgana rolls her eyes before going to examine her reflection in her full-length mirror. “A cheap one or an expensive one?”

“Cheap,” Arthur responds. “ _Really_ cheap. _Venereal disease_ cheap.”

“Wow,” Morgana says dryly, “You really know how to charm a girl.”

But she stomps off back to her wardrobe to find something else to wear anyway.

“Don’t let Will bother you,” she calls, “He’s really nice. And Merlin’s known him practically since he was born so he’s almost definitely not about to kill us.”

Well, Arthur will give him brownie points for that. “Should we really just be letting random people into our home, though?” he asks.

Morgana gives a frustrated sigh, but when she comes out she’s wearing a considerably better deep blue dress.

“What about this one?” she asks.

“It works,” Arthur replies. “You should team it with the Christian Louboutin wedges.”

Morgana gives him a very strange look that Arthur can’t decipher, but he decides not to ask. She obediently goes to get the shoes in question and, sure enough, they match perfectly.

“What’s this _really_ about, Arthur?” she asks, turning away from the mirror to fix him with her scariest glare, the one she’s copied almost perfectly from Uther.

“I don’t-”

“You’re coming across as either homophobic or jealous,” she informs him bluntly.

“I am neither of those things!” Arthur protests.

Morgana folds her arms. “Then really, tell me what your problem is. You went out all night, probably got reasonably drunk, and…” She trails off, and her mouth curls into a smirk that Arthur doesn’t entirely like. “Oh God,” she says, “Please tell me it’s not _that_.”

Arthur could pretend not to understand her significant look, but he’s known her for so long that they’d both be fully aware he was lying.

“Excuse me for being careful,” he points out, “The _last_ girl I slept with chucked me in the Thames!”

“You didn’t get laid last night so you’re going to take it out on Merlin, who did?” Morgana arches a perfectly-plucked eyebrow. “You’re so _mature_ Arthur, I can completely understand why Uther thinks you’ll be ready to take over the company in the next few years.”

“ _Merlin_ is having a more active sex life than I am,” Arthur tries not to wail, “Surely this must make you see how buggered up the universe is!”

“You are so completely _crap_ , Arthur,” Morgana informs him, coming over and forcibly taking away the last of his coffee. “You are going to go back in the kitchen and apologise for being a cock and then you are going to have breakfast and talk to Merlin and Will like the normal people that they are. All right?”

Morgana is really too scary for Arthur to argue with her, so he obediently stops hiding in her room and goes back to the kitchen where, if nothing else, there will be more coffee. He couldn’t exactly tell Morgana the reason he tends to avoid Merlin as much as possible, because she would just laugh at him. The problem is that Merlin has the ability to make Arthur feel like a mad prat _all the time_ ; he seems to spend pretty much every minute around Merlin with his foot wedged in his mouth. It seems unfair; as far as Arthur can tell, Merlin brings out the _best_ in everyone else.

Will-the-part-time-shag is no longer in the kitchen when Arthur walks back in (“He’s gone for a shower,” Merlin explains quickly), but Merlin is still sitting at the table sipping at a steaming mug. He’s wearing a shirt that Arthur doesn’t remember checking for Edwin’s evil bug things, which sort of implies it isn’t _his_ , and he forcibly reminds himself that Merlin’s sex life and permutations thereof _are none of his business_.

“Sorry about Will,” Merlin says, looking a little uncomfortable. “He tends to be… very _blunt_.”

This is what exasperates Arthur about Merlin: Arthur is the one who acted like a rude twat, but still _Merlin_ is the one who is apologising like it’s in any way his fault. He feels like he’s kicked a puppy every time he comes near the guy.

“It’s ok,” Arthur tells him, shrugging, going to get another mug out of the cupboard. “Sorry if I was rude to you and your boyfriend.”

When he sits down, he notes Merlin is actually _blushing_. “Will’s… not my boyfriend,” he says slowly. “I mean, I think he might want to be, but…” He looks awkward some more, while Arthur pours himself more coffee and wonders dispassionately whether Merlin’s head is actually going to explode from redness. “I’m always kind of a _bastard_ when it comes to Will,” he finishes finally, looking miserable and sheepish.

Arthur smiles. “I knew you had to have _one_ redeeming feature,” he says, and is relieved when Merlin laughs.

He even lets Merlin telekinetically make him toast.

He’s finally starting to feel human again, after lots of coffee and toast, when Will comes back into the kitchen.

“I should be calling a cab,” he tells Merlin. “My train leaves in just under an hour.”

Arthur is slightly stunned to hear his own voice saying: “I’ll drive you to the station, if you want.”

Will casts an eye over Arthur’s crumpled clothing and undoubtedly wan face. “Are you in any fit state to drive?” he asks.

Arthur shrugs and says: “I’m game if you are.”

Merlin is staring at Arthur like he’s been replaced by some kind of pod person, but Arthur has realised that Morgana has absolutely no intention of helping Gwen and Merlin find a new flat, and if they’re going to be living here for the next, well, _ever_ , he might as well make an effort.

Will turns to Merlin. “I like him,” he says lightly.

Merlin smiles. “I didn’t say _you_ wouldn’t like him,” he replies. “You were the one saying he wouldn’t like _you_.”

“Why wouldn’t I like you?” Arthur asks Will, resisting the urge to add: _other than the obvious_ , because Merlin’s friend/booty call seems perfectly all right so there’s no need to be pointlessly insulting.

“He wants to move into your airing cupboard,” Merlin replies cheerfully.

“…Ok,” Arthur says slowly.

“It sounds sort of psycho out of context,” Will tells him.

Arthur decides that trying to entangle whatever this conversation is actually about is a little beyond him, and instead checks his watch.

“Is it all right with you if we go in the next ten minutes?” he asks. “That way I should be able to get back here, change and shower before work.”

“Fine with me,” Will replies, offering him a smile. “Though, you know, you can carry off the been-out-all-night-partying-and-drinking-cocktails-that-cost-more-than-a-month’s-rent-each thing pretty well, it’s very Bruce Wayne.”

“ _I’m_ the superhero here,” Merlin says plaintively.

“You would fail miserably at being Batman,” Will informs him, ruffling his hair in an easily affectionate gesture that Arthur can’t look at, for some reason. “You would snap like a twig in minutes.”

“He’s got a point,” Arthur says, and then frowns. “I really should go and work out what I’ve done with my shoes.”

Once he’s gone back to Morgana’s room to find his shoes and has assured her that although _yes_ , he’s sleep-deprived, he’s not actually drunk, and can therefore drive without causing a horribly bloody accident, and then rummaged around in his own room for his gigantic aviator sunglasses to get rid of the worst of the morning glare, it’s time to go. Gwen has shuffled to her bedroom door, still wrapped in her duvet, to say goodbye to Will, a sleepy smile etched on her face. Merlin’s expression is a weird mixture of relief and devastation, which Arthur doesn’t try to define because he doesn’t know Merlin nearly well enough. 

Morgana shakes Will’s hand, and her expression is confused and perturbed when they part. Arthur gives her a curious look, but she shakes her head, apparently not sure what the feeling is either.

Arthur goes to call the lift, and doesn’t look back at Merlin and Will saying goodbye to each other.

Will is perfectly content to sit slumped in the passenger seat and not say very much during the car journey, while Arthur squints through his sunglasses and tries not to notice that his hands are shaking slightly on the steering wheel.

They’re stuck in traffic when Will turns to him.

“You should like Merlin more,” he says bluntly. “I mean, he’s a great guy. Warm, funny, charming, sexy… not that I’d expect someone like you to notice _that_.”

“Why wouldn’t I-” The light goes green and Arthur puts his foot down. He shoots a glance at Will. “Someone like _what_?”

Will looks at him like he’s a moron. “Straight,” he says, as though Arthur is exceptionally thick.

“Oh. _Right_.” Arthur pretends not to see the look Will is giving him.

When they get to the station, Will gives him a genuine smile. “Thanks for the lift,” he says. “And… keep an eye on Merlin for me, would you? I mean, just keep him from doing something stupid and getting killed.”

Arthur wants to say _why are you asking_ me _this?_ but instead nods and replies: “I will.”

Will grins toothily at him before getting out of the car. “See, I _knew_ you weren’t as much of a twat as Merlin said you were,” he laughs, before slamming the door shut.

Arthur grits his teeth.

^

Merlin takes Gwen out for coffee after work a couple of days later. Even though it’s been raining all day, she’s wearing the gorgeous yellow dress Morgana bought her; and, sure enough, it suits her perfectly. Merlin makes a mental note to tell Morgana this at some point, even though he’s discovered with both Arthur _and_ Morgana that telling them they were right about _anything_ only results in some truly _incredible_ smugness.

“Our lives are _insane_ ,” Gwen says over a caramel latte, “I mean, completely and utterly _insane_.”

“I’m really sorry,” Merlin says lamely. “I mean, two months ago we were mostly normal people, and now I’ve nearly got you killed on at least one occasion and… I’m sorry I’m unnatural and have put you in danger.”

Gwen rolls her eyes, leaning over the table to take his hands in hers. “ _You_ ,” she says, “Are _wallowing_ , Merlin. And self-pity has never been one of your fortes.”

Merlin smiles. “So you _don’t_ mind that you nearly got burned to death in my place? Because, you know, _I’d_ mind.”

“Well, all right,” Gwen concedes, “It was a bit scary getting a call from Morgana telling me to stay calm, grab anything I thought was valuable, and get as far away from the flat as possible.” She smiles slightly. “I mean, it was _useful_ , and having a friend who sees you’re going to die and tells you how to escape it is nice, but…” She shivers.

“We’re going to find Edwin,” Merlin tells her firmly, “We’re going to find Edwin and…” He trails off because of course he _doesn’t_ know what they’re going to do to him. Killing him themselves seems like a frightening prospect, but on the other hand if they hand him over to the police and tell them what Edwin can do and what he used his _powers_ to do then it’s only going to take about three days for the whole thing to descend into _X-Men_. Merlin knows that the world is cheerfully ignoring people with Freaky Abnormal Abilities while they stay mostly harmless, but the moment innocent _normal_ people start dying everyone’s going to get locked up and experimented on and that’s a prospect Merlin doesn’t exactly _relish_ , all things considered.

Gwen squeezes his hands. “Whatever doom-laden thing you’re thinking _isn’t_ going to happen,” she assures him. “I won’t let it.”

Merlin thinks about telling her that while Gwen is wonderful and brave and sensible and can do all sorts of wonderful things she will not be able to protect him from creepy secret government agencies who want to lock him away from the world, but they both know that so instead he nods and says: “Thanks.”

“Besides,” Gwen tells him, “It’s not _all_ bad. I mean, we’re living rent-free in a gigantic mutated penthouse sort of thing, and Morgana’s lovely and Arthur’s really not _that_ bad once you get to know him.”

Merlin raises his eyebrows.

“I’ve had a couple of conversations with him,” she says defensively. “And he was perfectly nice and quite witty and it was all fine.”

Merlin sighs. “So it’s just _me_ Arthur hates,” he mutters morosely.

“Look,” Gwen says firmly, and although she’s always had a core of steel there’s something in her expression that she’s definitely borrowed from Morgana, “Arthur _doesn’t_ hate you. If you weren’t so busy being wrapped up in your own head you might have noticed that he is making an _effort_ , and the two of you haven’t had an argument in days.” Her expression gets even more steely, and Merlin tries not to flinch. “Just because you can’t handle the fact you have a gigantic crush on Arthur is no reason to think he’s a complete bastard.”

Merlin pouts. “Morgana called,” he says childishly, “She wants her Death Glare back.”

Gwen giggles, but she’s blushing, just a little.

That night, Lance comes over for dinner (“Gwen can cook!” Morgana explains brightly, “We’ve never been able to have people over before without feeding them either burnt things or take away!”) and Arthur actually comes home from work, and the five of them manage to have a very nice meal. Merlin, after what Gwen told him earlier, pays proper attention to everyone around him, and realises that Arthur no longer looks at Merlin like he’s mentally deficient every time he opens his mouth. He is really more pleased about this than he’s going to admit to himself. Lance seems very taken with Gwen, which is very cute, and while Arthur and Lance are still acting vaguely like they’ve been dating for years, something’s changed in their dynamic, though Merlin can’t quite place it.

After dinner, they all end up watching crap films on TV, curled up on the gigantic, slippery leather sofas that Merlin is still not overly fond of, and Merlin realises that this is the first evening they’ve all managed together without petty sniping, a near argument, or Arthur acting like Merlin is a crazy person who shouldn’t have been allowed into their home.

In fact, with hindsight, he should have realised that the whole thing was going to go horribly wrong.

Morgana falls asleep halfway through a particularly inane action movie, and since Merlin is sitting next to her he’s the first one to notice when her body goes unnaturally rigid and then starts shaking.

“Morgana!” He puts a hand on her arm, trying to shake her awake. She’s trembling, eyes moving quickly beneath her eyelids, and he doesn’t know what she’s seeing but she looks completely and utterly terrified. “Morgana, you need to wake up.” 

By now the others have stopped the DVD and Arthur is over at Morgana’s side, looking at his sister with such naked fear that Merlin takes back about half the insulting things he’s ever said about him. 

“This has happened before,” Arthur tells him, words bitten off between his teeth. “She doesn’t want to be seeing whatever it is she’s seeing but she has to see it through in order to find out how to stop it.” He glances at Gwen. “She was like this the night of the fire.”

“Oh God,” Gwen says softly, hands coming up to cover her mouth.

Merlin honestly doesn’t want to know what’s coming next, who’s trying to kill him now, because just as he dragged his life back together he doesn’t need it to fall to pieces again.

“Something keeps blocking her,” Arthur says quietly, fingers tight on Morgana’s arm when she lets out a soft moan of fear, “She told me she doesn’t know exactly how it’s happening, but someone or something is trying to stop her from seeing the future properly.”

Merlin thinks _oh please don’t let it be me._

“Morgana,” Arthur says, “Come on. You need to wake up and tell us what’s happening.”

Another moment, and then Morgana’s eyes flutter open. She looks around wildly for a moment, and then her gaze catches on Merlin. She reaches for him, fingers biting into his shoulders.

“It’s Nimueh,” she tells him urgently, voice trembling. 

“Is she coming here?” Merlin asks. “Do we need to leave?”

“No!” Morgana shakes her head, and then seems to gather herself together. “It’s not us she’s after.”

“I don’t understand,” Arthur cuts in, voice at his most business-like and efficient. “Morgana, who is Nimueh going after?”

Morgana takes a shaking breath, and with six words shatters Merlin’s world completely.

“Merlin, it’s Will, and your mother.”

^

Merlin almost falls off the sofa, but Gwen reaches out to steady him. Arthur can see her eyes filling with tears.

“Morgana,” he says, “What exactly did you see?”

Arthur and Lance help Morgana sit up, while Gwen wraps her arms around Merlin, who is shivering almost uncontrollably.

“It wasn’t clear,” Morgana murmurs, “I couldn’t see…” She’s obviously upset about this, and Arthur knows that her ability has never been less than comprehensible before. “I saw Nimueh… she went to both Will and Merlin’s mother’s homes… she’s going to kill them.”

Merlin lets out a helpless noise into Gwen’s shoulder and she sobs. Arthur feels his stomach twist and can’t look at the blank horror on Lance’s face.

“All right,” he says, trying to sound rational and not terrified, “ _Gwen_ , how far away do Will and…”

“Hunith,” she supplies.

“…Hunith live?”

“About an hour’s drive,” Gwen replies. Arthur knows he has to keep her calm by giving her something to do, and with everyone looking at him in various kinds of panic he realises he’s going to have to deal with this.

“Right,” he says. “Then we will go, and we will stop her.” He takes a breath. “Morgana has seen the future, not what has _already_ happened, and so we will change it. All right?”

Ten minutes later Lance is driving like a madman, with Merlin in the passenger seat monosyllabically giving directions. In the back, Arthur risks a horrible, painful death if they should crash, and kneels sideways on his seat, holding Morgana’s hands. He leans his sister against Gwen, and squeezes her shaking hands until her breathing starts to even.

Gaius, his father’s oldest friend and their family physician since before Arthur was even _born_ , found out about Morgana’s ability about a week after Arthur did, and has always been helpful in helping the two of them to control it. One thing he taught them, years ago now, was a way to get Morgana to sleep in even the most stressful of situations; from time to time it’s frustrating that she can’t see the future while actually _awake_.

There’s silence in the car, and Arthur talks to Morgana, helping her focus on her breathing, talking her into calmness and then further on into sleep. It’s like a mild form of hypnotism, and it took a long time to get the hang of it, but Arthur has never been more grateful for the hours he spent practising.

Gwen raises a curious eyebrow at Arthur over the top of Morgana’s head. “Now we wait,” he whispers.

Arthur catches Lance’s eyes in the rear-view mirror; his friend looks utterly terrified, but after a moment nods slightly and looks away. Merlin has curled up into himself and is shaking, but Arthur tries to imagine what he would feel like if it was his father and Morgana in danger, and his stomach clenches.

Morgana is dreaming, though she doesn’t seem as afraid as she was earlier, and Arthur allows himself to hope that maybe they’re going to fix everything after all. Gwen seems to be making a concerted effort to keep herself calm; but then Arthur knows she and Will are friends and it seems likely that she knows Merlin’s mother too.

“It’ll be all right,” he tells her quietly, and she offers him a feeble smile.

“We’re… almost there,” Merlin tells them after what seems like an interminable amount of time, though Arthur knows it hasn’t been _that_ long. Lance has been breaking speed limits all over the place, and the traffic isn’t bad at this time of night. 

“We should split up,” Arthur says. “That way we can get to both of them.”

Merlin nods.

“What should we-” Lance begins, and that’s when Morgana starts trembling again. 

“No,” she murmurs, “No, _no_.”

“Morgana, what do you see?” Arthur all but yells, grabbing his sister’s shoulders. She doesn’t wake up; her head tips to the side and, so softly he almost doesn’t hear her, she groans: “ _Will_.”

Merlin shifts, unbuckling his seatbelt, and Lance barely has time to brake before Merlin is pulling open the car door and running out into the rain. 

“Go after him!” Gwen yells, and Arthur lets go of Morgana and is out of the car in another moment. The others can get to Merlin’s mother; Gwen will know where to go.

The rain is pouring down in thick, icy sheets; Arthur is soaked to the skin in seconds, but he’s soon able to catch up with Merlin. The other man has a horrible expression fixed to his face, though Arthur can barely see through the haze of rain, and hopes Merlin knows where he’s going because he has no idea. They run down about three streets before Merlin turns into another one.

“Oh God,” Merlin breathes, and Arthur realises which house must be Will’s because the door is wide open. 

The last thing Arthur wants to do is walk inside, but they’ve got no choice. All the lights are on, but even standing in the doorway Arthur can see right down the hall into the kitchen and there’s… someone lying on the floor.

“No,” Merlin gasps, running down the hall, Arthur following close behind. 

Will is sprawled on the tiles, looking unharmed but for a thin trickle of blood running out of his nose. Arthur thinks he’s dead for a horrible second, but then sees Will’s chest move; he’s still breathing.

“It’s all right,” he tells Merlin, and is reaching for his phone to call an ambulance when a woman steps out in front of them. She’s tall, with unnaturally blue eyes and a cold smile, and Arthur has no idea where she came from because the kitchen really isn’t that big.

“Nimueh,” Merlin says, and although his voice is trembling the word comes out strongly. “Let him go.”

Nimueh’s smirk broadens. “Merlin,” she says, “It’s so nice to finally _meet_ you. Our eyes met across a crowded room; do you remember?”

Merlin ignores this. “You don’t need Will,” he says desperately, “It’s me you want to kill. Let him go. Take me.”

Arthur catches Merlin’s arm, because he’s pretty certain Merlin shouldn’t be bargaining away his _own_ life, but Merlin shakes him off.

Nimueh looks as though something terribly amusing is happening. “Oh, Merlin” she says, shaking her head as though she’s disappointed, “I don’t want to _kill_ you.”

“But…” Merlin swallows and forces himself to continue, “But Edwin tried to kill Morgana, and me, and Gwen!”

“Yes,” Nimueh agrees. “He was very foolish, and believe me, he’s seen the error of his ways now.” Arthur suddenly feels sick; her tone of voice is _terrifying_. “He thought that killing you both would fix everything, but I’ve explained to him that it _won’t_.”

“Let Will go,” Merlin says, only his voice cracks and it sounds more like he’s _begging_. Arthur tries to think of something to say, but his mind seems to be frozen.

“It was a pity, really,” Nimueh continues, ignoring him, “That you stopped Sophia from accomplishing her task.”

“You were behind Sophia trying to kill me?” Arthur demands.

“Oh yes,” Nimueh tells him, smile stretching. “Well, it was more a test, but Sophia didn’t know that.” She turns her grin on Merlin. “I was _very impressed_ , Merlin.”

Merlin shudders; Arthur doesn’t understand exactly what Nimueh is saying to him, but decides now isn’t the time to ask for clarification.

“I wish there were another way,” Nimueh tells them both, sounding entirely insincere, “But unfortunately there isn’t.”

She takes a step back, and Merlin is about to go to Will’s side when Arthur catches his arm.

“Don’t,” he mutters, and Merlin obediently stays still. Arthur can feel how hard he’s shaking.

The window above the kitchen sink is open, Arthur notices, and there’s a wineglass sitting on the draining board beneath it. It seems to be full of rainwater, given the drops caught on the outside, and Nimueh picks it up. She smiles, raises it as thought toasting them, and takes a sip.

“I’ll be seeing you, Merlin,” she says, and drops the wineglass. It falls so quickly, shattering hard against the tiles, and Arthur hears Merlin groan beside him. Nimueh has vanished – Arthur has no idea how – and Will… Will has gone very pale, and he’s no longer breathing. Merlin moves to his friend’s side, pressing fingers against his pulse, mumbling _oh God, oh please, pleasepleaseplease_ over and over, but Arthur can tell that he’s dead.

Morgana told him once that Nimueh had the power over life and death. Nimueh dropped a wineglass full of rain, and Will… died.

Arthur wants to be sick.

Instead, he fumbles his phone out of his pocket, fingers clumsy on the keys, and calls Morgana.

“We’ve got Hunith,” she says breathlessly. “She was unconscious when we found her, but she’s just woken up and she’s fine. No sign of Nimueh. How about Will?”

Arthur opens his mouth to say something, but Merlin gets to his feet and steps away from… the body, shaking his head.

“Arthur?” Morgana demands. “Arthur, talk to me!”

“Will’s…” Arthur can’t finish the sentence, but Morgana seems to get the gist because she gasps.

“No,” she breathes. “Oh _God_.”

In the background, Arthur hears Gwen start crying.

“We’ll be with you soon,” Morgana says, and hangs up.

Merlin is staring wordlessly at Arthur.

“I’m calling the police,” Arthur tells him.

“What can they do?” Merlin asks tonelessly.

Arthur swallows against another tide of nausea, but manages: “They can clear us of murdering him.”

Merlin closes his eyes, takes a trembling breath, and opens them again. “Right.”

While Arthur calls 999 and tells them about finding a friend collapsed in his kitchen, Merlin crosses the room and sits down at a chair pulled away from the dining table, staring at Will. Arthur thanks the operator and walks over to him.

“Merlin…” he begins. He stretches out a hand, wanting to put it on Merlin’s shoulder, wanting to offer some kind of support because Merlin looks so devastated that Arthur just wants to wrap him in his arms and protect him from the world, but Merlin flinches away, not looking at him.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, letting his hand drop back to his side. It isn’t enough.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are a lot of post-it notes, a funeral, an inadvisable seduction and a revelation.

_Why do I want more than what I have?  
Brace myself to hear the lies  
I wonder if they know that I  
Don’t get the jokes but I just need to laugh  
So don’t take my photograph  
‘Cause I don’t want to know how it looks to feel like this._  
\- Newton Faulkner

It’s still raining as they drive home. Arthur hasn’t said a word since talking to the police, and is sitting with his forehead resting against the window. Morgana catches Lance’s eyes in the rearview mirror from time to time, but neither of them know what to say, to him or to each other.

Morgana wasn’t there, but she watched Will stop breathing in her dreams and it feels as though it happened right in front of her. Her hands won’t stop shaking, and she clenches them in her lap. As the adrenalin wears off, weak exhaustion begins to slip in. She closes her eyes, kneading them with her fingertips, and swallows around an increasing tightness in her throat.

They left Merlin, Gwen and Hunith behind; once Will’s body had been taken away and the police had finished their questions, Hunith said she was taking Merlin home, and Gwen said she’d stay too. There was nothing more that Arthur, Morgana or Lance could offer, however, so they’re going home. Morgana remembers the panic of two hours ago, and reflects that this is _much_ worse.

“Stop the car,” Arthur says suddenly; the first words he’s spoken in over an hour.

Lance and Morgana frown at him.

“Stop the _fucking_ car,” he repeats, and Lance pulls over. Arthur opens the door and stumbles out, taking a few steps before throwing up into the gutter. Morgana hasn’t seen Arthur be sick since his twenty-first birthday, when they started doing tequila shots before they even left the house, but this is different. Lance exhales slowly, thumbs tapping an anxious tattoo against the steering wheel.

“What exactly _happened_ tonight?” he asks quietly.

Morgana shakes her head, not sure she can reply. She’s got _too much_ information now, and later there’ll be time for assembling it and she has a horrible feeling she’s going to feel even _worse_ when she finds out what’s actually going on, but at this moment there’s nothing but despair and the sour taste of failure. 

Arthur looks pale and exhausted when he returns to the car, and Morgana invites him to join her in the back seat. He’s soaking wet but she wraps her arms around him anyway as Lance drives off again.

“I’m _fine_ , Morgana,” Arthur insists, though the crack in his voice shows he’s lying.

“Well, maybe I’m not,” she replies. Giving him the loophole he needs because Uther has emotionally damaged Arthur to a degree that makes Morgana genuinely angry at times. Arthur can’t be weak for anyone, _won’t_ be weak for anyone; but if Morgana asks him not to move then he won’t. She holds him tighter, and Arthur buries his face in her shoulder, his cheek cold against her neck. She clenches his fingers in his hair, and shuts her eyes, and breathes.

“We should get some rest,” Arthur says when they get back to the flat. “Lance… you could sleep in Merlin’s room.”

It’s the first time anyone’s said Merlin’s name since they left, and Morgana remembers her friend as she last saw him; face pale and drawn, body held rigid as though he was afraid of falling apart if he so much as exhaled, eyes entirely dead. She thinks of Arthur and Merlin alone in the kitchen with Will’s body for the endless minutes until the emergency services came, and her stomach twists.

“Thanks,” Lance says distantly. He looks worn and tired and Morgana almost wishes they hadn’t dragged him into this; too many people’s lives have been ruined and she still doesn’t know _why_.

She lies in bed and stares at the ceiling and although she feels more tired than she’s ever felt Morgana can’t bring herself to sleep. She remembers this feeling from being a teenager; knowing her mother was going to die, and she didn’t want to dream it night after night. She’d lie in bed for hours, chest tightening like a panic attack, too afraid to drift off because of what she’d see. Now, she doesn’t want to know what’s coming; she just wants to fall into a dreamless sleep and get the rest she needs. Sometimes, she really fucking _hates_ having an Abnormal Ability.

After an hour or so, she realises there’s no point in lying in bed, because she’s never going to sleep, and goes to make herself some tea.

Arthur and Lance are already sitting in the kitchen, heads bowed over steaming mugs and not saying anything.

“So much for getting some rest,” Morgana says. 

She gets herself some tea and joins them at the round wooden table, watching Arthur’s short nails trace patterns in the grain.

“Something doesn’t add up,” he murmurs at last.

“Most of this doesn’t add up,” Morgana replies.

Arthur sighs, and Morgana wants to tell him that he doesn’t have to do this, that he doesn’t have to dredge up tonight already. But leaving it for a few more hours won’t make it any less painful and the more information they have the better chance they have of not getting anyone else killed. 

“Nimueh isn’t trying to kill you or Merlin,” he says dully. “Only Edwin was trying to kill you, apparently, and he’s not going to try again.” The corner of his mouth twitches in a crap approximation of a smile. “So that’s something to be thankful for, anyway.”

“But,” Lance begins, “Why would Nimueh want _Will_ dead? She’s never even met him!”

Morgana frowns, but it’s Arthur who says, slowly, clearly testing the words out: “She didn’t want _Will_ dead, specifically… she wanted Merlin to _see_ him die.” 

None of them are going to sleep tonight, and the sooner they work out what’s going on the better. Morgana leaves the kitchen and brings back a pad of yellow post-it notes and a black felt-tip pen. On the top post-it she writes: **_Edwin tries to kill Morgana_** , detaches it, and sticks it to the table. On the next post-it she writes: _**Edwin tries to kill Merlin**_ , and sticks it beside the first one. The she writes: _**Nimueh kills Will**_ , and sticks it beneath the other two.

Arthur frowns, and then takes the pen from her. He writes: _**Sophia tries to kill Arthur**_.

“You think it’s connected?” Morgana asks, and the idea sticks out in her mind, like finding the corner of a jigsaw puzzle.

“Nimueh said it was,” Arthur shrugs, and adds, in brackets: **_(test?)_**

“What does that mean?” Lance asks, as Arthur presses it to the table.

Arthur shrugs. “It was just something she said.”

“Ok.” Morgana looks down at the four post-its, and thinks that they’re still _missing_ something.

“When did all this start?” she asks, thinking out loud.

“About two months ago,” Arthur replies promptly. He frowns, biting his lip in thought, and then writes, in big letters: **_MORGANA MEETS MERLIN_** , and sticks it above everything else.

The three of them look at the post-it; Morgana re-reads the words so many times that they lose all meaning.

Lance takes the pen and post-its from Arthur, and writes: _**Merlin and Morgana meet at Magical Support Group**_.

Morgana nods, before writing: _**Nimueh attends Support Group**_ and _**Edwin attends Support Group**_ on two more post-its and sticking them to the left of all the others. There’s got to be something here, and she’s _so close_ now.

“Did Sophia go to your group?” Arthur asks, fingers tapping an impatient tattoo on the side of his teacup.

“No,” Morgana replies, “I _never_ would’ve let you date her.”

Lance is still staring at the post-its. “I’m guessing you don’t attend any more,” he says to Morgana.

“I don’t make a habit of socialising with people who’ve tried to murder me,” Morgana tells him.

Lance writes: _**Morgana stops attending Support Group.**_

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Arthur, before he stands up to lean over the table and rearrange the post-its into chronological order.

“Ok,” Morgana says, reading over them. “So I leave the group, and Edwin tries to kill me.” She grimaces.

“But that fails,” Arthur continues, pacing the kitchen. “And then Sophia tries to kill _me_.”

“I don’t see how that _can_ be connected,” Lance interjects. “Morgana said Sophia wasn’t part of this group.”

“But Nimueh knew her,” Arthur says slowly. “Nimueh said that Sophia trying to kill me was a _test_.”

Morgana considers this, and then it clicks. “You didn’t start dating Sophia until _after_ I’d left the group,” she says. “And the day Edwin failed to kill me was the day Sophia tried to kill you.”

“So you’re saying I had some kind of…sleeper agent girlfriend?” Arthur asks, looking a mixture of anxious and annoyed.

“Would you rather she was just a random psycho?” Morgana raises an eyebrow. “Look, Edwin had no way of knowing that the flowers he sent hadn’t killed _me_ until it was too late. So when I’m still wandering around alive, they go to Plan B.”

“Arthur,” Lance says. 

“Exactly.” Morgana nods, feeling that finally they’re sorting something out.

“But _why_ kill me?” Arthur demands.

“A warning to me?” Morgana suggests.

“ _Test_ ,” Arthur reminds her.

Lance taps the pen against his lower lip. “Maybe it was to see what Morgana and Merlin would do,” he murmurs, clearly thinking out loud. “If you managed to stop Sophia then the others could see what you can do together. If you _didn’t_ manage to stop it, then you’d still get the warning.”

“But-” Arthur begins, but Morgana cuts him off.

“That it!” she gasps. “Lance, that’s _it_.” When the two men frown at her, she explains: “Before I met Merlin, I used to dream about being _friends_ with Nimueh. About working with her. _After_ I met him, I’ve only ever dreamed about fighting her.”

“So _that’s_ why Edwin tried to kill Merlin,” Arthur says, nodding. “The two of you are… dangerous?” A trace of a smile steals across his mouth. “I can’t believe I’m even _saying_ that.”

“Merlin and I aren’t in the group,” Morgana murmurs, ignoring him. “So they think we’re _against_ them, and we’ve got to be stopped. So Edwin decides to kill us.”

“Nimueh said that Edwin was wrong,” Arthur reminds her. “ _She_ doesn’t want you two dead.”

“She wants you to come back,” Lance suggests. “ _That_ would have been the warning, if Arthur had been murdered.”

“It’s a _Support Group_ ,” Arthur points out. “Where you sit around and eat biscuits and bitch about accidentally setting the curtains on fire when you sneeze, that sort of thing. Why does it _matter_ if you go or not?”

Morgana swallows. “I thought that was what it was,” she says, “But… everyone there has a power that’s harmful, and the people themselves are less than stable.” She looks at Arthur and Lance, fear growing in her stomach. “What if they’re planning…”

“What, world domination?” Arthur interrupts dryly. “That’s a _little_ melodramatic, don’t you think, Morgana?”

“Whatever it is they’re willing to kill for it,” Morgana points out. “And they _have_ killed for it.” 

“And they want you and Merlin to help,” Lance adds, looking anxious.

“I was _supposed_ to help,” Morgana tells him. “If I hadn’t met Merlin, maybe I’d be going along with this.” Arthur looks sharply at her, but Morgana decides they’ll deal with that later.

“But why kill _Will_?” Lance asks. “I mean, it will hardly serve as a warning, will it? Merlin won’t want to work with the people who killed his best friend.”

“Maybe it’s not a warning,” Morgana suggests darkly. “Nimueh wanted Merlin to see either his friend or his mother die in front of him.” She sits down, legs feeling weak. “What if she just wants to make him lose control, go as fucking insane as everyone else?”

“This is _Merlin_ we’re talking about,” Arthur cuts in, sitting down again too. “Most days he seems incapable of tying his own _shoelaces_. Do we really think he’s capable of _killing people_?”

Morgana grimaces; she was going to try and get away without mentioning it, but she can’t outright lie. Not now. “He killed Sophia,” she admits.

The look of shock and horror on Arthur’s face is almost comical. “He fucking _what_?”

In the silence, Lance observes wryly: “Well, at least I’m not the only one having things kept from him.”

Morgana glares at him, but he only shrugs and goes to make more tea. Lance has had _years_ of experience of Being Friends With Arthur And Morgana and can therefore sense the fight brewing in the air; there’s no point trying to diffuse it.

“Merlin murdered my girlfriend and you didn’t _tell_ me?” Arthur demands loudly.

“I don’t think he meant to,” Morgana tells him, keeping her voice calm and steady. 

“That _doesn’t help_ ,” Arthur replies tightly. 

Morgana considers this, and realises that _no_ , it really _doesn’t_. Merlin panicked, wasn’t sure what he was doing, and ended up killing Sophia _with her own weapon_ without a second thought. Her stomach churns. 

“Oh _God_ ,” she breathes.

“Merlin is not about to go evil and start slaughtering people,” Lance interrupts from over by the kettle. “He’s scared and he’s unhappy and he feels guilty but he won’t join Nimueh and the others and you both know he won’t.”

All the fight seems to seep out of Arthur; he slumps in his chair, leaning forward to rest his forehead against the table. Exhaustion and anxiety are battling inside Morgana, making her feel nauseous, and knowing what’s really going on right now doesn’t make her feel any better. The whole future seems to be teetering on a knife edge, and she doesn’t ever want to sleep again for fear of what she’ll see.

“So what do we do now?” Lance asks, coming to join them with more tea. Morgana reaches gratefully for her cup.

“Their move,” Morgana replies. “We’ve got to wait and see. Hope they tip their hand and we find out what they’re planning; until then, there’s nothing we can do.”

“Nothing?” Lance echoes.

Morgana shakes her head. “Not without Merlin. And he’s got enough to be dealing with.”

Arthur sits upright, looking tired and miserable, but at least resigned. “You should have _told_ me,” he sighs.

“I know,” Morgana replies quietly.

Lance lets out a long, slow breath. “This is _mad_ ,” he says. “I mean, really, really _mad_.”

The three of them sit up the rest of the night, saying nothing at all.

^

Merlin doesn’t know what Gwen and Morgana told his mother and doesn’t really care. She’s always known about his abilities, of course – most parents don’t have to deal with their toddlers levitating themselves and objects around them when they have a tantrum – but he doesn’t know if she ever put in the research the way Gwen did; if his mum knows there are lots of others out there with powers. He doesn’t know if his mother knows all about Nimueh and Edwin and their constant attempts to kill Merlin, if she knows what _really_ happened to Will.

And he doesn’t _want_ to know if his mum really understands how close she came to dying herself.

That’s the reality of the situation of course; they walked into a trap designed to abuse Morgana’s ability. She said Will’s name in her sleep, so it was Will Merlin went to help and Will who died. If Morgana had said _Hunith_ … but he can’t think about that, _won’t_ think about that. It’s bad enough that he got his friend murdered just so Nimueh could prove a _point_.

Merlin leaves his mum and Gwen sipping tea in an all-consuming silence and wanders upstairs, feeling listless and dizzy and kind of unreal.

It’s strange, being back in his old room. His mum hasn’t re-decorated it since he left home at seventeen, and it’s the same as it’s always been. There are inadvisable clothes left in the back of the wardrobe – the jeans all too small because Merlin was an _unbearably_ skinny bastard as a teenager – and porn underneath the loose floorboard and photographs of himself, Gwen and Will pinned to the board above his desk. He stares at them for a lingering, stinging moment, and then takes the pins out and puts all the photographs away in a drawer. He sighs, takes his still-damp shoes off and gets into bed, dragging the duvet over his head until he can hardly hear the raindrops hitting the window.

He stays in bed for nearly a week, curled up in a ball beneath the covers. He spends the days slipping in and out of uneasy consciousness, catching thin skeins of dreams between his hands, and most of the nights staring at the dark ceiling, replaying the same scene over and over in his head. Merlin tried to catch the wineglass with his mind as it fell, tried to stop it from smashing, but it slid away from his powers, like trying to grab wet soap with your hands. It slipped straight through and broke and Will…

It gets worse every time he relives it. Arthur’s fingers around his wrist get tighter, the rattling sound of Will’s last breath gets louder, Nimueh’s eyes get crueller, the sound of breaking glass gets physically _painful_.

Merlin’s mother brings tea and sandwiches three times a day. He drinks the tea, and she takes the food away uneaten a while later. She doesn’t seem to know what to say either; it’s almost a relief. Merlin doesn’t want to talk to anyone, doesn’t want to look at anything, doesn’t want to _think_. He just wants to hide away and ignore everything, because the world is _just too much_ right now.

On the morning of the fifth day, someone comes barging into Merlin’s room, waking him from a shallow sleep as they start opening curtains and moving things and generally making noise.

“Mum-” he croaks.

“Wrong,” Gwen chirps. “Though I won’t say I don’t occasionally feel that way.” She comes over and sits on the end of his bed, scrutinising him, concern writ large on her face. “ _Merlin_ ,” she sighs, as he squints at her. It’s too _bright_ in here, daylight streaming through the windows. “When Hunith called me-”

“My mum called you?” Merlin repeats blankly.

“You haven’t eaten in _four days_ ,” Gwen reminds him. “You’ve only left your room to go to the loo twice a day. She was worried.” She offers Merlin a smile that utterly fails to hide her anxiety. “Morgana was all for storming down here and having some kind of intervention, and then Arthur started talking about dragging you off to Claridge’s as some kind of insane rehabilitation thing, and you have _no idea_ how terrifying it is when they both agree on something, so I thought I’d better come and do the job myself.”

“The job?” Merlin knows he’s sounding weak and pathetic but the world is spinning and Gwen is too _bright_ and too _loud_ and all Merlin wants to do is roll over and go back to sleep.

“It’s Will’s funeral in two days,” Gwen tells him, and her voice is impressively steady. “I said…” She swallows hard, but continues: “I said you’d want to say something. So it would be best if you can actually stand and don’t look unwashed, unshaven and mad.”

Merlin is perfectly aware that Gwen will not cave; she never does. She will stay here until he gets up and faces the world again, no matter how long it takes. Not having a choice in the matter is almost a relief.

“I am going to go and get you some tea,” Gwen informs him, “And some toast. And when I get back you will be sitting upright and ready to ingest something, all right?”

Gwen’s voice is gentle and concerned but there’s a firm edge of steel running through it and Merlin, once again, marvels at her ability to be so sweet and yet so stern. Once she’s gone downstairs, he carefully pushes himself up, vision wavering, and is almost ashamed at just how _pathetic_ he’s being. Nimueh killed his friend and she’ll probably kill other people who matter to him and instead of trying to protect them he’s just been cowering in his room.

By the time Gwen gets back bearing a tray, Merlin is feeling nauseous with self-loathing and picking at his split cuticles.

“This? This is _going to stop_ ,” Gwen informs him, coming to sit down again and balancing the tray between them. There are two cups of tea and a plate of toast on it; nice toast, entirely unburned, the kind Merlin can never manage to make for himself. “I’ll admit that you do have the cheekbones for a lovely _anguished_ expression, but you are going to pick yourself up and pull yourself together because _everyone_ is scared and _everyone_ is blaming themselves and _they’re_ not trying to kill themselves through inactivity.”

There’s really nothing he can say to that, so Merlin reaches for one of the cups of tea and sips at it. While he does this, Gwen keeps up a steady stream of chatter, vague anecdotes about how Arthur and Morgana are driving each other _mad_ and keep trying to get her to take sides, which she won’t, and about how Lance – who is apparently sleeping on their sofa at the moment, though Gwen is careful not to mention _why_ – is being no help _whatsoever_ , and in listening and trying to follow what she’s saying Merlin discovers he’s actually eaten quite a bit of toast.

“Better?” Gwen asks, with a soft, knowing smile.

“A little,” Merlin admits.

“Good,” Gwen replies. “Because I think it’s about time we get you out of bed and into a bath of some kind.”

Merlin says nothing, and watches her carry the tray outside. She walks down the hall, and then he can hear running water. He clenches his fingers in the duvet cover, feeling completely useless and horribly embarrassed. He’s aware it’s a ridiculous cliché to even be _thinking_ it, but he _knows_ that Will wouldn’t have wanted him to do this.

Gwen pads back eventually, and drags the duvet off without preamble. “Up,” she orders briskly, and Merlin obediently uncurls his heavy limbs to follow her down the hallway. Gwen has filled the bath tub with warm water and has added some girly-smelling bubble bath stuff to it, and she shuts and locks the bathroom door behind them.

“You’re staying?” Merlin asks, flushing.

“You are barely capable of standing upright on your own,” Gwen points out patiently. “I’ll be somewhat upset if I leave you unattended and you drown.”

Merlin nods reluctantly, undresses, and gets into the tub. It feels good to sink into the water, though the feeling of being wet reminds him of the night Will died, and bile rises in his throat. Gwen sighs, closing the lid of the toilet and sitting down on it, leaning forward to put her hand between his shoulderblades. Merlin takes a breath, closing his eyes, and remembers that shutting down isn’t an option.

“Soap,” Gwen suggests after a moment, and Merlin obediently reaches for the cake lying in the dish, and Gwen gets up to rummage through the bathroom cabinet while he washes himself.

“Morgana says she misses you,” Gwen provides after a moment. “And Lance says he does too.” She pauses, closing the cabinet. “Arthur got extremely worried when I said you hadn’t left your room in days.” Her voice is curious, thoughtful. “He fired off a whole list of things we ought to do about you, it was very strange.”

Merlin sighs. “I don’t particularly want to talk about Arthur when I’m naked in a bathtub, Gwen,” he says.

She offers him a sunny smile. “I’m just thinking out loud,” she offers.

In the end, Gwen winds up washing his hair for him; her fingers are gentle but firm and she somehow manages not to get shampoo in his eyes, which is something Merlin has barely got the hang of when washing his _own_ hair, and she hums as she does it which distracts him from the way the water trickling down his face is a little too much like rain for any kind of comfort.

He’s going to have to work on this, because he is _not_ going to let Nimueh make him afraid of the weather, especially since he lives in England where it rains _all the sodding time_.

“We _are_ going to have to get you a haircut,” Gwen murmurs, fingers trailing idly through his wet hair.

Merlin offers her a wan smile. “Don’t _you_ start.”

She smirks in reply.

Once he’s got out, Gwen provides him with clean pyjama bottoms and tells him she expects him to shave. Maybe she had a point about feeling like his mother.

“I might grow a beard,” Merlin suggests, looking at his haggard reflection in the mirror morosely. 

“No,” Gwen says gently. “No, you will not. Because you will look _stupid_ with a beard.” She tips her head to one side, reviewing him and his dark, five-day stubble thoughtfully. “Though I will admit I didn’t think you could get _this_ far; I thought you might be one of those guys who _couldn’t_ grow a beard.”

“I am not a girl,” Merlin protests. “And there was that time in uni-”

“…When you grew that ugly little moustache,” Gwen finishes for him, nodding. “I was very glad when whichever guy you were shagging persuaded you to shave it off.”

Merlin looks at the shaving foam and razor sitting waiting by the sink and flexes his trembling fingers.

“Can you do this?” Gwen asks lightly. “Because I don’t want to watch you slice half your face off.” She smiles, but it looks crooked. “You won’t be half as pretty if you do, and Will always said your prettiness was your best feature.”

“He didn’t!” Merlin protests, though at the mention of Will’s name his heart is beating too fast and there’s a horrible sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Well, not to _you_ ,” Gwen replies, but she sounds half breathless.

Merlin leans back against the sink. “Oh _God_ , Gwen,” he murmurs.

She’s beside him in a moment, wrapping her arms around him, burying her face in the damp bare crook of his shoulder. Merlin shuts his eyes and presses his cheek against her hair and though his chest feels so tight it’s a wonder his ribs aren’t bursting he just can’t cry.

He feels paralysed.

“It’s ok,” Gwen murmurs, not moving away, “It’s _ok_.”

It isn’t, and they both know it, but Merlin is grateful for the words anyway.

^

Arthur runs a red light when Morgana informs him that Merlin has emailed in his resignation. 

“ _Please_ try not to kill us on the way to the funeral, Arthur,” she tells him sharply, “I’m sure that’s ironic, somewhere along the line, but really, there are other ways I’d like to go.”

Arthur sighs and doesn’t reply; Morgana watches his profile for a moment while trying to work out exactly what’s going on. Arthur has got weirdly protective of Merlin recently; she supposes it has something to do with being there with Merlin when Will was killed, and the fact they’re both starting to realise that something _incredibly_ serious is happening and Merlin needs to be kept out of it as much as possible. Still, it’s interesting, and Morgana is carefully filing away all her stepbrother’s unusual behaviour for future scrutinising.

After about a mile in silence, Arthur glances at her. “Do you know?” he asks.

“Arthur,” she says patiently, “I _see the future_. I don’t _read minds_. Remember?”

Arthur doesn’t bother calling her something insulting; his jaw is tight. “Do you know how you’re going to die?” he asks bluntly.

It’s a question Morgana has never been asked, though she’s always thought it would be the first thing people came out with. She realises now that it’s a _relief_ no one has ever brought the subject up; just thinking about it makes her feel dizzy and sick and like she’s going to explode into a hundred pieces.

“You’re a morbid bastard,” she tells Arthur. She hesitates longer over her answer. “I might do,” she mumbles at last.

“What exactly does that mean?”

She shrugs. “I had the dream a long time ago, and I’m still not entirely sure I know what it meant.” She reaches over to turn up the radio. “Can we stop having this conversation and never have it again?”

Arthur smiles slightly. “All right.”

The streets are bathed in cool winter sunlight, and it’s the strangest contrast to the wet night of a week ago. It has been a very strange week; Morgana feels like she’s been sleeping with one eye open, walking around glancing over her shoulder. Her dreams are becoming increasingly cryptic, full of shadows and muffled speech, and the future is frustratingly obscure. Morgana knows that everyone else manages to live their lives without knowing what’s going to happen, but she’s been precognitive for as long as she can remember and now it feels as though someone’s cut off a limb.

The last time Morgana saw the future with any sort of clarity, she saw Will dying. A quiet anticlimax of a death, but up close and personal against her eyelids nonetheless. She can’t help but blame herself, though she’s pragmatic enough to know that the trap had been designed with her in mind, and although she did walk right into it there was _nothing_ she could’ve done.

She’s not even sure she should _be_ at Will’s funeral, given the role she played in his murder, but she liked him and Gwen asked her to be there and Morgana was not going to be a coward and refuse to attend. Besides, she _needs_ to see Merlin; she needs to know how he’s feeling. Gwen called her yesterday and told her Merlin was in a considerably stronger frame of mind, but Morgana knows they can’t be too careful.

“I hate funerals,” Arthur mutters, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel.

Morgana refrains from making a sarcastic reply. Arthur is too pale, eyes surrounded by dark bruised rings; he looks as though he hasn’t slept in days, though he won’t talk to Morgana about it when she tries to lead him into conversation. He’s still frustratingly good-looking, because Arthur is never anything less than underwear-model-gorgeous, but by his own standards he’s looking downright _awful_.

It’s not as freezing today as it has been for most of the last fortnight, but there’s still a bitter chill in the air when Morgana gets out of the car. She hugs her coat tight around her, and she and Arthur walk in silence around to the entrance of the crematorium, where people are milling about talking awkwardly. Morgana spots Merlin and Gwen almost immediately; Gwen is straightening Merlin’s tie and keeping up a steady stream of chatter, while Merlin looks like he’d like to be sick at any moment. Gwen catches Morgana’s eye and offers her a feeble smile, brushing imaginary dust from Merlin’s shoulders and turning.

Morgana pulls her into a hug, and Gwen whispers urgently in her ear:

“He looks about fifty times better than he did when I got here two days ago.”

Morgana realises what she means when Gwen lets go, and she gets a proper look at Merlin. He looks haggard and pale and skinnier than ever, worn-out and nauseous. When Morgana hugs him too, he feels completely insubstantial.

“Thanks for being here,” Merlin says quietly, when Morgana pulls away and brushes a lock of his hair behind his ear. “It’s… good to see you.”

Morgana offers him a pale smile, because there’s nothing to say in situations like this. There never _is_. Funerals are horrible and unnecessary and yet, at the same time, _horribly necessary_ , and Morgana wishes she was _anywhere_ else but knows that she needs to be here.

“Um,” Arthur begins quietly, “There’s a woman over there staring at me.”

Morgana glances over, and sure enough, there’s a red-headed young woman in a black dress that’s a little too tight gazing unblinkingly at Arthur.

“Oh,” Merlin says, and a trace of a smile flickers across his mouth. “That’s Lucy. She worked with Will. And she loves you, Arthur.”

“Ah.” Arthur grimaces.

“She has your _OK!_ interview on her locker,” Merlin adds, almost cheerfully.

“Oh _good grief_ ,” Arthur sighs.

“Well,” Morgana informs him sternly, “That’s what happens when you’re a gorgeous billionaire bachelor and you get yourself on _lists_ and give interviews to magazines and then have photo shoots where you’re draped in an aesthetically pleasing fashion across fireplaces.”

Arthur pouts, and for one single moment everything’s almost _alright_. And then Hunith comes hurrying over and catches Merlin’s arm.

“Everything’s ready,” she murmurs.

Merlin nods, looking distinctly ill, and they all go inside. Arthur and Morgana sit towards the back, and Morgana still feels a kick in her stomach when she sees the coffin, looking far too small for there to be a person inside; the last funeral she went to was her mother’s. It was nine years ago, and yet, sitting here, it feels like no time at all. Beside her, Arthur reaches for her hand, and squeezes it. He can be a bastard at times, he can be unfeeling and selfish and breathtakingly unperceptive, but Morgana really genuinely _loves_ her stepbrother.

There’s a minister, and hymns, and Morgana learns all kinds of things about Will that of course she never knew – his father was killed in the first Gulf War, his mother died of cancer four years ago, he and Merlin have apparently known each other since they were six months old – and Arthur doesn’t let go of her hand. His face is impassive, sombre, but Morgana knows that he’s thinking of the same thing she is; Will’s body limp on the kitchen floor breathing his last breath. 

When it comes time for Merlin to speak, he looks barely capable of standing, but he unfolds his paper with trembling hands and spreads it over the podium before him. Morgana squeezes Arthur’s hand so tightly she’s sure she’s going to leave nail marks, but when Merlin finally starts talking his voice is steady and clear. He talks fondly about Will, bringing up anecdotes from their childhoods, a trembling smile fixed to his mouth.

“Will… Will was special,” Merlin says, “He…”

But he can’t continue. His mouth moves, but he doesn’t say anything, and he stares helplessly at his paper and then at the assembled people, mouth quivering. It’s a frozen moment; Morgana can see Gwen’s shoulders shaking with tears in the front row, can hear everyone around her holding their breaths, because no one knows how to fix this. Morgana has never felt so helpless, watching Merlin drown silently in overwhelming emotion.

The moment breaks when Arthur disentangles his fingers from Morgana’s, standing up. She opens her mouth to ask him what he’s doing but he doesn’t look at her; instead he walks down the aisle between the chairs. Merlin looks like a rabbit caught in the headlights but he doesn’t move, and Arthur joins him at the podium.

“May I?” he asks quietly, and Merlin stares blankly at him for a moment before moving slightly to the side. Arthur picks up the paper, skims his eyes over the speech and then raises his gaze to the room.

“Will was special,” he reads, “He was a good friend…”

Morgana watches Arthur read as Merlin stands beside him, swallowing hard. Arthur is excellent at public speaking, of course, and his tone is appropriately sombre without descending into morose. Morgana feels a lump in her throat and tries to swallow it down because she doesn’t know how much grief she’s _entitled_ to, but the guilt is almost overpowering. Eventually, Merlin takes the speech from Arthur, their hands brushing together clumsily over the papers, and keeps reading. Arthur shifts, as though he’s about to move away, and Morgana thinks she’s the only one who sees Merlin’s fingers catch Arthur’s sleeve. Arthur obediently stands beside Merlin as he finishes his speech, head bowed, and then returns to his seat beside Morgana as the minister asks them all to rise for a hymn. Arthur offers Morgana a quick, brief smile, and then doesn’t look at her again for the rest of the service.

“That was… sweet,” Morgana tells him when they’re standing outside, blinking in the anaemic sunlight. 

Arthur shrugs awkwardly, hands stuffed in his coat pockets. “The last thing Will said to me…” he begins, trailing off. When Morgana gives him a _look_ she’s borrowed from Uther, Arthur continues: “That last thing he said to me was to look after Merlin.” He gives Morgana a sheepish smile. “Well, all right, the last thing he _actually_ said was that I was kind of a _twat_ , but it was the _penultimate_ thing anyway.”

Morgana nods, smiling at him, feeling a little choked up and not entirely sure how to explain it.

Gwen comes outside and throws her arms around Arthur. He looks a little stunned, but hugs her back. Gwen makes a little sniffling sound.

“You’re not going to cry, are you?” Arthur asks, looking a little anxious.

“No,” Gwen says, stepping back, wiping at her eyes. “No, I’m not.”

Hunith walks over to them. “There’s no wake,” she says, “Will always said he didn’t want one – I think his parents’ ones were too awkward for him.” She smiles at Arthur and Morgana. “But if you’d like to come and have dinner with us, we’d be happy to have you.”

Morgana smiles back; she finds it hard to look at Hunith without remembering seeing her lying unconscious on the floor, and the horrible moment she, Gwen and Lance had when they honestly thought Hunith was _dead_.

“Thank you,” she replies. “We’d like that.”

Merlin walks out of the crematorium, clutching paperwork and looking wretched. He does manage to give Arthur a real smile though.

“Thank you,” he says. “I mean… really, _thanks_.”

Arthur nods, an uncomfortable expression on his face that Morgana’s not sure she’s ever seen before.

“It was…” Arthur swallows, and Morgana’s never seen him _nervous_ like this before either, “It was nothing.”

Hunith gives Morgana directions to her house before curling her hand around her son’s arm and leading him towards their car, Gwen following.

“I don’t know what to _say_ to him,” Arthur confesses. “I mean, am I supposed to tell him that he’s not alone? That I have nightmares, that I can’t sleep properly, that I shut my eyes and try to work out what I could have _done_? Do I tell him any of that?”

Morgana offers him a bleak smile and brushes her hand against his shoulder. “I think he already knows.”

^

Merlin’s mother is very possibly one of the kindest people Arthur has ever met, he reflects halfway through dinner. She’s clearly struggling with grief – she saw Will as a second son, that much is clear – and she’s just as plainly anxious about Merlin, who does look like he’s recovering from some kind of horrible wasting disease, but she’s bright and cheerful and polite and kind. Arthur hasn’t had a lot of experience with mothers in general – his mum died shortly after his birth, for reasons his father has point-blank refused to go into, while Morgana’s mother was very charming and seemed nice but had little interest in her own daughter, let alone her new stepson – and it’s a little surreal to be around someone quite so _motherly_. She fusses over Arthur, telling him how _tired_ he looks and slipping him extra helpings of lasagne, she expresses concern over how pale Morgana is, and spends a good ten minutes interrogating Gwen on _every_ aspect of her London life.

It’s cosy and it’s domesticated and it’s downright terrifying. Arthur can sense Morgana is as disconcerted as he is; they grew up in his father’s gigantic country house, which had huge amounts of corridors and bedrooms and _thirteen fucking bathrooms_ , and saw their parents at breakfast or dinner if they were lucky but rarely at _both_ , and the whole place was big and quiet and solemn. Arthur tries to imagine this kitchen full of people; a younger Gwen and a younger Will and a younger Merlin, stealing biscuits from the cupboards with Hunith laughing fondly at them. The idea makes his stomach twist with a strange sort of _want_ ; a hunger for something he wasn’t even really aware he was missing.

They’ve done their best with their lovely flat and their faux grown-up coffee table books on animals and artsy photographers neither of them have _actually_ heard of and nice cushions from Liberty all over the place, but while Arthur and Morgana are perfectly happy at home they’ve never achieved _domesticity_. 

Dinner is surprisingly all right, in spite of the desperate jealousy clawing at Arthur’s insides and the _looks_ Morgana keeps shooting him; the _we never had this_ looks, and Gwen is bright and as cheerful as she can manage. Merlin is quiet, contributing occasionally to the conversation and pushing his lasagne around his plate with his fork. He’s a shadow of his former self, and Arthur is surprised by how _upset_ he is to see this; he thinks he’s finally got the hang of Merlin. The other man does have a weird sort of charm and Arthur knows he was starting to see it in the days leading up to Will’s death; he _got_ why Lance and Morgana liked Merlin so much.

He watches the scrawny-looking man hunched over the table, the corners of his mouth tugged down in apparent grief, and can’t imagine Merlin killing Sophia. That thought has recurred several times this week, but now faced with the man himself Arthur can’t believe it possible.

And he never thought he’d miss the manic grin that makes Merlin look like a moron, but he really _does_. 

After dinner, they end up sprawled on comfortable, slightly sagging sofas in the living room; Arthur picks up a framed photograph sitting on top of the television. It’s two small children at the seaside, grinning broadly at the camera; Arthur squints at the picture and realises that they’re Merlin and Gwen. Merlin is all ears and big Disney blue eyes, while Gwen is looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

“How old are you here?” he asks, showing them the picture.

“Six?” Merlin suggests.

Gwen squints at the picture. “No, that was my fifth birthday,” she corrects him. “We all went to Littlehampton.” She smiles. “I think I remember the icecream.”

“About five minutes after that picture was taken Gwen pushed Merlin into a rockpool,” Hunith tells Arthur with a smile. “And he cried a lot.”

Merlin blushes profusely, and Arthur laughs as he puts the picture back on top of the television.

“You’ve known each other a long time,” he observes.

“They met on the first day of school,” Hunith informs him. “Merlin was terrified; William had been winding him up something chronic, telling him all these horror stories.” She sighs reminiscently, rolling her eyes fondly. “I come to pick him up expecting the worst, and he comes running out of the building hand in hand with Gwen, and tells me: ‘this is Guinevere, and she’s lovely, and we’re going to be married when we’re bigger’.”

Merlin’s blush darkens. “I’d forgotten that,” he admits.

“Well, he broke my heart when we were seven,” Gwen points out. “He told me he was only interested in boys.”

“I don’t remember you being upset,” Merlin tells her.

“Seven?” Hunith echoes, arching an eyebrow. “Merlin didn’t tell _me_ until he was eleven.”

“You seem to be terribly good at keeping secrets,” Morgana observes lightly.

“Well,” Merlin begins uncomfortably, “I mean, I thought Gwen might be _expecting_ me to marry her, or something, and I didn’t want to let her down.”

Arthur tunes out the rest of the conversation, eyes resting on other photographs in the room. He didn’t realise Merlin had known Gwen so _long_ , practically their entire lives. Morgana, who is Arthur’s sister and undoubtedly the most important person in his life (not that he will ever _tell_ her that), has only been in his life since he was eleven. It seems like hardly any time at all, in comparison.

Uther had met Morgana’s mother while away organising some kind of company takeover; they were married within a month and Arthur didn’t meet his new stepsister until the wedding itself. He’d already figured out he wasn’t gaining a new mother, and wasn’t all that bothered about it – his father’s PA had been more paternal than Uther _ever_ was – but he’d been curious about gaining a sibling. They’d been sat next to each other during the reception, and Arthur remembers how intimidated he’d felt when he first met Morgana. She’s a year older than him, but she’d seemed so much more; sitting regally straight with her waterfall of dark hair and no expression at all on her face.

In an attempt to make conversation, Arthur had said: “So… this is all a bit of a surprise, isn’t it?”

Morgana had given him a thoughtful look, said: “No, not really,” and returned her attention to her dessert.

During the honeymoon, Arthur had stayed with his father’s closest friend. Gaius was a doctor and actually paid attention to what Arthur said and offered him help with his biology homework; it had been a disconcerting but nonetheless enjoyable experience. When he finally returned home, Morgana and her mother had moved in, though it didn’t make the house seem any less empty.

Morgana’s complete and utter lack of surprise at her mother’s remarriage, when the whole thing had been a shock to everyone _including_ the newlyweds, had made Arthur suspicious. His new stepsister seemed to have an answer to everything, never seemed shocked by anything, and drifted through the world with a bemused and bored sort of expression. He was determined to find out what was going on as soon as possible.

Arthur found out that Morgana could see the future when she saved his life. At the time, he’d been on the school football team, and had been scheduled to play in an away match at another school. That morning, Morgana had been late to breakfast and looked particularly haggard. Without looking at Arthur, she’d breezily manipulated Uther and her mother into taking them to the opera that night – “something we can do as a family”.

“I’ve got a football match tonight,” Arthur had protested.

His father hadn’t really cared; Arthur’s sporting ability always came second to his actual grades, since being able to play football would not help him when he inevitably took over Pendragon Industries.

Arthur had shouted at Morgana in the hall: “You’re a bitch, you know that?”

Morgana had shrugged and gone to get into the car to school, leaving Arthur fuming behind her.

The coach with the football team in it had skidded on an icy road and crashed. No one died – though there were several broken limbs – and when Arthur found out about this the first thing he could think was that, somehow, impossibly, Morgana had _known_ about this. He stormed into her room, nearly causing her to blind herself with her eyelash curlers.

“You _knew_ , didn’t you?” he demanded loudly.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Morgana replied icily, but for the first time she looked slightly shaken.

“You knew the coach was going to crash!” Arthur yelled at her.

Morgana said nothing, but her mouth twitched and gave her away.

“You can see the future, can’t you?” Arthur had continued, because even though it seemed ridiculous and improbable it was the only thing that would explain Morgana’s utter _weirdness_.

“No,” Morgana told him, but she looked anxious and guilty now.

“Well,” Arthur had snapped, “Either you can see the future or you just tried to kill an entire coach full of innocent people.”

Morgana had sighed, looking down at her feet. “All right,” she conceded, “I can see the future, but-”

“I can’t fucking believe I have such a _freak_ for a stepsister,” Arthur had snapped, because he really was a little _shit_ in those days, and turned to leave.

“I saved your life!” Morgana yelled.

“No you didn’t,” Arthur yelled back, and they hadn’t spoken for about three months, until she’d told him his girlfriend was going to cheat on him, and he’d reluctantly admitted that having a weird freaky stepsister was actually a _good_ thing. Why _Morgana_ forgave him, Arthur still doesn’t know.

“Earth to Arthur,” Morgana trills brightly, wiggling her long fingers in front of his face. Beneath the amusement, he can see a trace of concern on her face.

“I’m just tired,” he tells her quietly, and catches Hunith looking at him with concern.

“Why don’t the two of you stay here tonight?” she offers. “I’ve got lots of room.” 

Arthur thinks about moving, about driving home now, and realises exactly how late it’s getting.

“That would be lovely,” Morgana says graciously. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” Hunith replies. “The spare room is tidy for once, and it’s got twin beds.”

“Where are you going to sleep?” Morgana asks Gwen.

“The other spare room,” Gwen replies, smiling. “It’s secretly quite a big house.”

“The only good thing I got in the divorce settlement,” Hunith says, with a hint of a wry smile.

They talk for a while longer; vague meaningless conversations to fill a rapidly growing space of exhaustion. It’s been a long day, and Arthur can see Merlin curling miserably into himself, falling silent.

“I’m going to bed,” Hunith says at last. “I’m in the loft, so don’t worry about waking me when you decide to get some sleep.”

When she’s gone, Morgana says to Merlin: “Your mother is _amazing_.”

Merlin smiles wanly and nods, but doesn’t say anything. He looks so lost, like he did in Will’s kitchen in the endless minutes while they waited for the paramedics, and Arthur still has no idea what to say to fix it. But he _does_ want to fix it; he keeps telling himself it’s because Will sort of asked him to.

“I’m going to go to bed too,” Merlin mumbles.

When the door closes behind him, Morgana and Gwen exchange looks.

“I’ll go after him,” Gwen offers. “Check he’s… coping, or whatever the hell he’s meant to be doing.”

“It’s all right,” Arthur says, because he’s been feeling useless all day and he can’t _stand_ it any longer, “I’ll go.”

^

Today went slightly better than Merlin expected it to, though his head is pounding and everything seems too vivid, too horribly real. He can see through his friends’ bitter façades to the fear and guilt and misery underneath, but he doesn’t understand how they can conceal it, however badly, so easily. He feels like he’s sinking and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

Gwen’s dad’s funeral felt a bit like this; she came to stay here afterwards, and they slept together in his bed, Gwen trembling in his arms and waking up every few hours.

He hasn’t been oblivious to the nervous, anxious looks everyone’s been shooting him all night, but he doesn’t know what to do about them; he can get through this and he will get through this because he _has_ to, but today is not the day for pretending he’s impervious to everything. Eventually, he decides he has to go to bed because the effort of sitting in a room with people is more than he can stand.

Merlin is half-expecting someone to come after him, and so isn’t surprised when there’s a knock at the door. 

“Come in,” he says, not bothering to turn around. “Look, Gwen-”

“Not quite.” Arthur sounds awkward, and Merlin hears him close the door behind him.

Right. So the script has changed a little, but Merlin can deal with this. After all, Arthur has been surprisingly invaluable today; strong where Merlin hasn’t been, and his calm steadiness when Merlin was attempting to give his speech will be something Merlin’s grateful for _forever_.

“Hi,” Merlin mumbles feebly, attempting to hitch a smile onto his mouth.

“Hi,” Arthur replies, and he seems a little awkward too, but in a way Merlin hasn’t seen before. It’s confusing.

“Look,” Merlin begins unsteadily, “I’m _fine_. I’m just tired, and it was my friend’s funeral so I think it would be more worrying if I was perfectly _cheerful_ , and I don’t need someone to-”

“Shut _up_ , Merlin,” Arthur sighs, crossing the room immediately and pulling Merlin into his arms.

“What-”

“Shut _up_ ,” Arthur repeats, crushing Merlin harder against his chest. Merlin remains rigid and disconcerted for a moment, and then when Arthur shows no signs of letting go, lets himself crumble. He presses his face into Arthur’s shoulder and curls his arms around him and lets Arthur be strong enough for both of them. Arthur is warm and certain and he doesn’t say anything at all, which is sort of a relief, and Merlin wonders how long he’s been _needing_ this.

“I _know_ ,” Arthur eventually murmurs against his hair, voice sounding hard, almost vicious. “I _know_.”

Merlin isn’t aware how long they stand like that, but eventually he pulls away a little. Arthur’s hold loosens but his arms remain looped around Merlin’s waist and he’s looking at Merlin with those unbelievably blue eyes, mouth slightly open as though he’s trying to find words but can’t find any. Merlin’s heart is pounding in his chest and the world doesn’t feel entirely steady around him and he feels like he could _explode_ ; grief and guilt and anger mix inside him and Arthur’s still holding him like he knows Merlin could shatter if he gets go.

He knows it’s a bad idea and it’s for all the wrong reasons, but Arthur is _gorgeous_ and apparently secretly _wonderful_ underneath the fact he’s also a _dick_ , and Merlin doesn’t know how to stop himself from leaning forward and fitting his lips against Arthur’s.

Arthur’s mouth is soft and Merlin feels him inhale sharply in surprise. He pulls away and Arthur stares at him, stunned, but still says nothing, and Merlin is so barely in control of himself that he kisses him again, and this time Arthur’s mouth opens wider against his and before Merlin can really register that Arthur is supposed to push him away and tell him to _stop_ he’s got one hand clenched in silky golden hair and is tugging Arthur’s lower lip with his teeth.

Merlin knows he shouldn’t be doing this, that he’s being shamelessly manipulative and just because he hasn’t been able to concentrate on anything _but_ Arthur’s beauty since he met him doesn’t give him a right to do this, and Arthur _was not supposed to kiss him back_. Arthur was meant to be a gentleman and he was meant to explain to Merlin all the ways this is a bad idea before swiftly taking his leave.

Arthur is not supposed to be unknotting Merlin’s tie one-handed while kissing him so hard his mouth is starting to hurt. _Tell me to stop_ , Merlin thinks blindly, pushing Arthur’s black suit jacket back over his shoulders to crumple on the floor, _please tell me to stop_.

Instead, Arthur makes a soft sound in the back of his throat when Merlin begins to undo the buttons of his shirt, fingers clumsy and impatient and trembling, and Merlin can’t stop himself because the need to not be _alone_ right now is almost overwhelming. Arthur drags off Merlin’s jacket, pulls his shirt out of his trousers, and Merlin spares a thought for _oh dear God has Arthur ever done this with a man I really really need to put a stop to this before it all gets out of hand_ , before realising that it’s _already_ out of hand. They share brief, messy, hungry kisses, and Merlin is a little too desperate and he thinks, oh, if Arthur is even the slightest bit hesitant he’ll put a stop to this because of _course_ he wants this and _has_ wanted it since he pulled Arthur’s cold, wet body from the Thames, but not like _this_ , really, not like _this_.

He pushes Arthur onto his bed, leaning over him with one knee on either side of Arthur’s hips, and Arthur simply pulls him closer. _Tell me to stop_ , Merlin thinks almost desperately, _tell me to stop and I’ll stop, I really will. Just tell me_.

But Arthur doesn’t, and Merlin doesn’t either.

^

One of Merlin’s more _annoying_ personality traits, at least according to his boyfriends over the years, is that he is an early riser. He seems to be genetically incapable of having a lie-in; he wakes up early and gets up early and that’s the way it’s always worked.

Arthur has stolen most of his duvet, Merlin discovers when he wakes up cold and largely naked, and he spends a while watching the early morning sunlight glint off Arthur’s golden hair and thinking a half-asleep version of _ooh, shiny_ until his brain finally perks up enough to realise that he is _naked_ in a _bed_ with _Arthur Pendragon_ and last night they had incredibly desperate sex.

_Oh fucking hell_ , he thinks, panic jolting him wide awake. 

He’s a bastard, he knows, but it doesn’t stop him from quietly getting out of bed, selecting some cleanish clothes from his bedroom floor, and sneaking out of the room. While he brushes his teeth, he tries to work out what the hell Arthur thought he was doing. All right, so it was better than pity sex had any _right_ to be, and Merlin will probably be thinking of Arthur writhing underneath him, blonde hair sticking to his forehead and reddened mouth opened in a silent moan, for the foreseeable future, but it doesn’t change the fact that Merlin _shouldn’t_ have done it and Arthur _shouldn’t_ have let him do it, and… and oh _God_.

When he opens the bathroom door Gwen is standing there, fully dressed and arms folded, glaring at him.

“Kitchen,” she whispers, “ _Now_.”

Merlin obediently trails after her and reflects that his best friend really is _terrifying_ in a way that is somehow far scarier than Morgana can ever manage.

Gwen has already boiled the kettle and Merlin sits at the table while she makes them instant coffee.

“You seduced Arthur,” she says flatly, passing him a mug and sitting down beside him. 

Merlin feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. “You didn’t…” he begins, but can’t bring himself to finish.

“No, I didn’t overhear anything,” Gwen tells him. “You were remarkably discreet, which was probably just as well. But it was fairly obvious.”

Merlin drops his head into his hands. “Gwen,” he groans, “He’s gorgeous and apparently charming when he’s not being a _cock_ and he was so completely _lovely_ yesterday and it was an accident because he was _not_ supposed to kiss me _back_.”

Gwen sighs heavily. “So you coerced Arthur into a pity shag. Nice one, Merlin.”

Merlin raises his head. “It wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do when _not_ grief-stricken and out of control,” he protests. “Only, all right, I would probably never have plucked up the courage because Arthur is, you know, _Arthur Pendragon_.” He waves a hand, trying to sum up _unbelievably gorgeous_ and _my boss’ son_ and _apparently straight, no matter what Morgana says_. “And we would probably have talked first,” he adds. “You know.”

“Your ability to make ridiculously complicated emotional and sexual crises around you never fails to impress me,” Gwen says lightly. “I mean, you and Will got _incredibly_ awkward and complex, and I’m still not sure how you managed it.”

Merlin isn’t sure either, but thinking about Will just makes him feel wobbly and useless so he doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

“ _Gwen_ ,” he half-wails, “Gwen, I had sex with _Arthur Pendragon_ and it was _really good_ in a traumatic sort of way and… what am I going to _do_?”

Gwen stares at him for a moment, and then sighs. “Come on,” she says, “I’ll take you out for breakfast and we won’t come back until Arthur and Morgana have gone home. And then you can have a rational conversation with Arthur in a couple of days’ time when you’re a little less insane.”

“I really _love_ you,” Merlin says fervently.

And he tries as hard as he can not to feel guilty about sneaking away.

^

It is not really a surprise when Arthur wakes up alone, and it’s sort of nice to be alone for the _oh dear lord I had sex with Merlin last night, didn’t I?_ moment.

He gets dressed and brushes his teeth with Merlin’s toothbrush because he figures that sharing DNA isn’t really going to be an issue now, and heads downstairs.

Morgana is alone in the kitchen, sipping a mug of coffee and reading the newspaper.

“Morning,” Arthur says.

“Morning,” she replies. She glances up at him. “Hunith has gone to get some more milk, and Merlin and Gwen apparently went out for breakfast an hour ago.”

“Right,” Arthur replies, and goes to make himself a cup of coffee too. Morgana, to her credit, waits until he’s sitting down at the kitchen table before she closes the newspaper and fixes him with her most terrifying look.

“You,” she says accusingly, “Pity-fucked Merlin on the day of his friend’s funeral _in his mother’s house_.”

Arthur thinks through several responses to that, including _I’m not entirely certain it was a pity fuck_ (which is really more information than he’s willing to give Morgana and he’s also not entirely sure what to do with that thought), but in the end he sighs and says:

“Yes, but… it’s not as bad as you’ve made it sound.”

Morgana sighs. “Oh, _Arthur_.”

She takes a sip of her coffee, and Arthur shifts in his chair. He has a sudden, amazingly vivid flashback to curling his legs around Merlin’s hips, and nearly chokes on his own drink.

“Can we at least admit I’m _right_?” Morgana asks eventually, raising an eyebrow.

“About what?” Arthur enquires, because he’s reasonably certain that he and Morgana have _never_ had a conversation involving Merlin and Arthur and sex until now. It’s the kind of thing he’s sure he’d remember.

Morgana rolls her eyes. “I assume you realise you’re gay _now_.”

Arthur flushes. “You can’t judge my sexuality based on a slightly inadvisable decision I made at a time of emotional weakness!” he protests.

Morgana sighs, and opens the newspaper again. “So, in other words… yes.”

Hunith brings back the milk and they make smalltalk over cornflakes; Arthur manages to look her in the eye and not at _all_ think about Merlin and nudity and that sort of thing. Hunith hugs them both goodbye when they finally have to leave, and apologises profusely for Merlin’s absence. Arthur thinks it’s probably just as well that they don’t have to face each other and work out exactly what’s going on, and tells himself that he is _in no way_ disappointed.

Morgana snickers every time Arthur shifts uncomfortably in his seat as they drive back, and he eventually falls asleep against the window; he’s too knackered to even care that Morgana is driving and could therefore _kill them both_ (how she even got her licence has always been a complete mystery to Arthur). She eventually wakes him up and drops him off a few streets away from Pendragon Industries, advising him to go and get another coffee before turning up to work.

Arthur calls up Lance while walking to the nearest Starbucks.

“How was the funeral?” Lance asks.

“Funeral-like,” Arthur responds flatly. “Look, Lance…” He sighs. “I think Morgana might be right.”

“She usually is,” Lance agrees. “About what exactly?”

It’s amazing how weird it is to actually say it, but Arthur manages anyway. “She’s been telling me for years that I’m gay,” he murmurs, “And, you know, I think I… _might be_.”

There’s a pause.

“Galahad will be pleased,” Lance observes eventually.

“Why?” Arthur asks blankly.

“The man is _crazy_ about you, Arthur,” Lance replies brightly. “Seriously, next time you go into the office, have a look at him.”

“Oh,” Arthur says.

“Yes, _oh_ ,” Lance responds, sounding a little mocking.

“So you’re not surprised.”

“Not really.” Lance laughs. “I mean… no, not _really_.”

Arthur is a little depressed about this; he’s going to be annoyed if it turns out that _everyone_ in his life thinks he’s gay _already_.

Lance tells him he has an actual meeting to go to, but he’ll talk to Arthur later, and Arthur stares blankly at the Starbucks coffee boards and tries to work out what he wants to drink. His mind keeps straying back to Merlin, trying to work out what the other man is thinking, if he’s thinking about Arthur, if he’s-

_Oh bloody hell._

Arthur refuses to stand in the queue angsting about Merlin; his expression must be fairly terrifying because the woman behind him, who was until this moment smiling at him, takes a step away. Apparently potentially borderline insane must trump incredibly handsome. He stares at the boards and finally decides he’ll just drink a latte with as many shots as they’re willing to put in it, and thinks about _nothing but coffee_.

“Can I help you?” the barrista asks. He’s about as tall as Arthur, with dark hair and blue eyes and a ludicrously large smile. “What can I get you?”

There’s something kind of familiar about that smile, and Arthur feels his stomach clench before he registers that just because if you squinted and were in a dark room the barrista might look _slightly_ like someone Arthur spent half of last night kissing is no reason for him to start feeling eager and dizzy and generally pathetic. It’s _no reason at all_ , unless…

“Oh dear _God_ ,” Arthur says helplessly, ignoring the looks he’s getting, “ _Oh_ dear God, I’m in love with _Merlin_.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Morgana is poisoned, Merlin doesn’t give Arthur anything close to what he wants, choices are made and lines are drawn.

_On the other side of this_  
This molehill of a mountain  
This potion of a poison  
They’re on the other side of right  
We’re on the other side of her midnight.  
\- Tori Amos

Two days after the funeral, Merlin is picking up his email and sipping a cup of tea while down the hall Gwen packs ready to return to London. He feels weirdly at peace for the first time in what feels like forever, but that’s soon shattered.

**Subject:** Something to consider

_Emrys, you do not need to feel like this._

_Not any longer._

_\- N_

Merlin stares at the email until his eyes hurt, his heart thumping painfully against his ribcage. It’s only the little voice in the back of his head reminding him that he can’t _really_ afford to buy his mum a new computer – especially now he’s handed in his resignation – that stops him from mentally pulling the machine into lots of little plastic pieces. He feels sick, and even when he blinks it feels like the curve of Nimueh’s cruel smile is pasted over his vision.

Finally, the ringing in his ears dies enough for him to be able to yell: “Gwen!”

She runs into the room a moment later. “Merlin? What’s the matter?”

He can’t speak, just nods at the computer. Gwen crosses over to his side, leaning over his shoulder to peer at the screen. She reads the message, and her fingers bite into his shoulder, drawing a sharp breath through her teeth.

“I need to call Morgana,” she says quietly.

Merlin catches her wrist as she reaches for her mobile. “Gwen, what’s going on?” he asks urgently. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Gwen offers him a feeble smile. “Look,” she says, “We’ve been doing some thinking…”

“You’ve been having strategy meetings without me?” Merlin asks, stung.

“You were living under your duvet at the time,” Gwen points out frankly, “I didn’t think you’d have anything to contribute.”

Merlin sighs, nodding. “Point taken. But seriously, _what’s_ going on?”

Gwen considers him for a long moment, obviously trying to decide what to say. The lovely thing about Gwen is that she doesn’t sugarcoat things; not when it really _matters_.

“Nimueh tried to drive you mad,” she says bluntly. “She murdered Will in front of you in an attempt to make you lose control. She wants you to join her and Edwin and their band of insane psychopathic freaks.”

Merlin considers this; it makes a horrible kind of sense if you ignore the fact it’s blatantly fucked-up and mad.

“…Did you just call me an _insane psychopathic freak_?” he asks slowly, trying to smile.

Gwen doesn’t smile back. “Do you have _any idea_ how close to edge you went?” she demands, voice hushed, eyes hard and scared. 

Merlin wants to tell her that he would _never_ have joined Nimueh and Edwin and Valiant and the others, but he remembers how scared and cold and full of despair he felt. And then how nothing at all seemed to matter; catch him at the right moment and maybe he would have crumbled and gone along with anything. He hopes he wouldn’t have done, but he’s not _certain_ enough to reassure Gwen.

“Exactly,” she murmurs, and all the anger has slid away, leaving her looking merely tired.

Merlin looks back at the computer screen. “Well, at least Nimueh thinks I’m still lost in the depths of despair,” he offers.

“You’re not?” Gwen asks warily.

“No,” Merlin replies, with certainty. “I’m not exactly _good_ , but I’m _all right_.”

Gwen’s smile is real, and soft. “So we have the advantage,” she murmurs, squeezing his shoulder.

Merlin thinks he should tell her that they’re not at _war_ with anyone, but he’s also becoming increasingly aware that that would be a lie. It’s a war because Nimueh and the others _want_ it to be; and he’s going to have to get involved to save himself and those he cares about, if nothing else. He will not let Gwen die; he will not stand by and watch her be murdered. He owes Will that much, at least.

“Should I reply?” he asks hesitantly, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Gwen considers this, mouth twisting in thought. “No,” she decides at last. “I mean, we _could_ pretend you’re psycho and broken and willing to join their Evil Team of Evilness, but then they’d probably turn out to have someone who could _read minds_ and Nimueh might decide to want you dead anyway.”

Merlin _knew_ he shouldn’t have let Gwen have unlimited access to his comic book collection when they were kids, but on the other hand this whole thing is horribly plausible. Stupid and weird and he still wakes up every morning expecting to find out that it’s either a really powerful hallucination or a completely unfunny practical joke, but plausible nonetheless.

“There really isn’t any way to stop this, is there?” he asks hopelessly.

Over the week and a half since Will’s death, Merlin has been functioning by trying to pretend that the whole thing will _go away_ if he ignores it, but that isn’t going to happen. And it seems almost impossible to believe that outside people are mowing their lawns, downstairs his mother is doing laundry, and no one has _any idea_ that Merlin’s entire world is hanging in the balance.

Gwen sighs, leaning down to wrap her arms around him, cheek against his hair. He raises his hands to cover hers, pressing them against his chest, and closes his eyes to block out Nimueh’s simple, damning words. A reminder that he’s already paid a price too high for him to try and back away now.

“Come back to London with me,” Gwen murmurs eventually.

“I _can’t_ ,” Merlin replies, letting his hands drop. Gwen lets go of him and moves to perch on the desk beside the computer. 

“You’re _hiding_ ,” she says accusingly, arms folded in a determined gesture she’s almost definitely stolen from his mother. 

“I’m sure Nimueh and the others will come and find me here when they’re ready,” Merlin replies, trying not to shrink away from her glare. 

“You’re hiding from _Arthur_ ,” Gwen tells him.

Merlin belatedly remembers that there is basically _nothing_ that Gwen doesn’t know about him and what she doesn’t know she can figure out from his body language. There is no point in denying anything because she’ll just give him that _Merlin, I love you a lot but you’re an idiot_ look that she’s spent the last nineteen years perfecting, and he’ll end up telling her the truth anyway. Really, he’d be halfway certain that she has a Freaky Abnormal Ability of her own if not for the fact it only seems to work on _him_.

“I’m not _hiding_ ,” he protests feebly. “I’m just… giving us both some time to adjust.”

“Arthur is not going to forget about the pity shag thing just because you’re refusing to be in the same city as him,” Gwen tells Merlin patiently.

Merlin can feel himself blushing, and can’t meet her eye. “I _know_ that,” he mumbles.

Gwen sighs. “Merlin,” she says firmly, “ _You are not fourteen_.” 

She doesn’t say _grow a pair_ but it’s implied in her tone.

“But he doesn’t like me!” Merlin wails pathetically. “He’s going to look at me with that _you’re a weird moron_ expression he does, you know, the one where he sort of looks down his nose and does that thing with his eyebrows and his mouth goes all funny, and it’s going to be _very traumatic_ , Gwen.”

Gwen rolls her eyes. “Arthur _does_ like you, Merlin,” she says. 

“Arthur pities me,” Merlin counters. “At first I used to annoy him, and now I think he believes I’m _beyond help_ and so has decided to tolerate me. You know.”

“Oh good grief,” Gwen sighs. “Your lack of self-esteem knows _no bounds_. When this is all over and we’re not dead, we’re going to work on that.”

Merlin smiles weakly, trying to share her belief that any of them are going to be alive when it’s all over. 

“You can’t hide from Arthur forever,” Gwen says, standing up and leaning to press a kiss against his temple. 

“I know,” Merlin mumbles.

“Don’t take too long,” Gwen warns, though whether she’s talking about him facing Arthur or returning to London Merlin isn’t entirely sure. He wants to tell her not to go; within the walls of his childhood home he sort of feels like the cruelty and inevitability of the outside world can’t get in. But he’s also perfectly aware that Gwen _hasn’t_ handed in her resignation and he really can’t ask her to hide from her life forever.

She squeezes his shoulder and leaves to continue packing. Merlin deletes the message from Nimueh, a heavy leaden weight settling in his stomach as Gwen’s explanation really begins to sink in. Will was murdered for _nothing_ , was murdered simply to manipulate Merlin’s emotions, and somehow that idea makes him feel sicker than the thought that Will was killed because Nimueh is insane. He wants to get up and scream that this whole thing is a complete and utter cliché, that things like this _do not happen_ in the real world, but he knows that he’s in too deep to turn back and he can only hope that Morgana will see how to fix it before it’s too late.

For a moment, he considers going with Gwen, returning to his life, but he’s not sure that he’s ready. Not yet.

^

Morgana takes her time adding sugar to her tea and stirring it exactly seven times anticlockwise before looking at Arthur. Her stepbrother is tapping his fingers against his teacup, gnawing his lower lip and avoiding her gaze. He’s still utterly beautiful, because he will never be anything but effortlessly good-looking, but he still appears too pale, completely worn-out.

“Are you _sure_?” she asks carefully.

Arthur puts the teacup down and glares at her. It’s nice to see that the intensity of _that_ hasn’t faded in the least.

“ _No_ , Morgana,” Arthur replies, rolling his eyes. “I just thought I’d say _I have the horrible suspicion I’m in love with Merlin_ for the hell of it.”

A couple of months ago Morgana would quite happily have said that it is _exactly_ the sort of thing Arthur would randomly come out with, but he’s done a lot of growing up since the whole _People With Magical Superpowers Trying To Kill Them_ thing started. Oh, he’s still a spoiled brat at times, because that will possibly not ever change, but he’s maturing. Thinking things through, being more conscientious. Morgana can’t find a way to tell him that she’s proud of him without sounding condescending and kind of _bitchy_ , but she really is.

“It’s not that,” Morgana tells him, “It’s just… you’ve finally realised what I’ve been trying to tell you for _years_. Are you sure you’re not just confusing Merlin with your… sexual epiphany?”

Arthur quirks an eyebrow. “ _Sexual epiphany_?” he echoes incredulously.

Morgana glares at him, the firm gaze she’s inherited from Uther too, and he drops his gaze back to his teacup, thumb tracing the grain of their table. Arthur has gone back to biting his fingernails, Morgana notes absently; but then she has barely slept for a week and Lance rings them at least four times a day, so she supposes they’re all showing their anxiety in different ways. 

“Look,” Arthur begins tightly, “I know part of it’s probably born out of adrenalin or fear or the fact I haven’t had a good night’s sleep for about a _month_ , but… when it comes to Merlin…” He continues more slowly, as though the words are being wrenched out of him entirely against his will: “When I think about him… when I remember…”

He doesn’t look anything like the Arthur Pendragon she’s known for more than half her life. He looks vulnerable and uncomfortable and _wrong_ somehow; and Morgana knows that she can’t make him continue. He’s scratching at the glossy mahogany grain with his ragged thumbnail, and sooner or later he’s going to damage their beautiful round dining table; Morgana reaches out and presses Arthur’s hand flat.

“All right,” she says quietly. “All right.”

Arthur nods, and suddenly his expression is back to one of calm self-confidence. He slides his hand out from beneath Morgana’s, and picks up his teacup again.

“When’s Gwen due back?” he asks.

“About an hour,” Morgana replies. “Lance says he’ll pick her up from the station.”

It’s Arthur’s reaction to this news that convinces Morgana that maybe he really _does_ feel something real for Merlin; for as long as the two have known each other Arthur has been incredibly overprotective of Lance, always asking questions about anyone he’s with, getting this frustrated little expression on his face. Arthur has never seemed to notice any of this, and Morgana never saw the point in mentioning it. Now, though, he just smiles and says: “That’s good idea”, and reaches for the teapot.

Morgana is particularly relieved about this, because in-between her shadowy dreams of flames and rain and the echo of Nimueh’s laughter, she thinks she’s seeing a growing closeness between Lance and Gwen. She’s not entirely sure that she’s right, because she is uncertain of everything at the moment (she had a dream the night of Will’s funeral involving Arthur and Lance, which was somewhat disconcerting), but it will be nice if Arthur doesn’t start resenting Gwen.

“Merlin’s staying with his mother for a while longer,” Morgana begins carefully. “Gwen isn’t sure when he’ll be back.”

Arthur’s hand doesn’t waver as he pours himself another cup of tea, and he doesn’t spill anything, but his mouth presses into a flat line.

“It’s been harder on him than the rest of us,” he offers at last.

Morgana could point out that the whole thing has been reasonably hard on _her_ , but then she suspects she’s already a little crazy from spending her whole life living in the future and not paying much attention to the present; something she never noticed before meeting Merlin and discovering that not _everything_ can be predicted after all.

“Gwen says he’s better, though,” she adds. “We won’t have to worry about him going over to The Dark Side.”

She has faith in Merlin; of course she does, but when Gwen called her from the train and told her about Nimueh emailing Merlin she did have a momentary panic attack. Morgana has _never_ dreamed about Merlin, not once, and it makes her a little afraid of him. But Gwen said that Merlin is brighter, happier, more certain, and Morgana pretended not to hear the relief in her voice. After all, no one really wants to hear _hey; by the way, your best friend could go evil if his all-consuming grief continues much longer_.

“So, on the plus side,” Morgana informs Arthur, as he stares morosely into his tea, “You may actually have saved the world by shagging Merlin.”

Arthur fixes her with that bright blue stare. “ _You are not fucking helping_.”

Morgana lets her smirk spread a little wider. “Hey; maybe you do have a special abnormal power after all.”

He pouts and ignores her.

They sit in silence for a while, drinking the last of the tea and Morgana becomes aware of a quiet buzzing sound. Glancing up, she sees there’s a fly circling the light, and sighs. She can’t be bothered to go and find a newspaper to swat it, but the sound is starting to set her teeth on edge. 

“Come on,” she says abruptly, standing up, “Let’s go and watch stupid TV until Gwen and Lance get here.”

“Are you all right?” Arthur asks, frowning at her.

“I’m fine,” Morgana replies quickly. “Honestly.”

Arthur is still looking at her with concern, but Morgana pretends not to notice. They move to the living room, where Arthur starts channel hopping and Morgana regards their coffee table book on nineteenth century naval vessels with bemusement, trying to remember when they thought that would _ever_ be a good idea. Surely they weren’t _that_ drunk?

“I think we need to ask Lance to move in,” Arthur says lightly, breaking into her thoughts. “It’s just… things being the way they are, I think we need to stick together in this.”

Until Merlin returns, Lance can sleep in his room; and it’s not as if Lance hasn’t spent several nights on their obnoxiously gigantic sofa in the past.

“All right,” Morgana replies, and doesn’t tell Arthur that she thinks proximity won’t necessarily help _any_ of them; she suspects Arthur already knows.

^

“You’re home before eight,” Morgana calls to Arthur, poking her head round the living room door as he comes in two days later, “The world _must_ be ending.”

Arthur glares at her.

“Galahad says he has no idea what to do with his evenings now he’s not spending them at work with Arthur,” Lance says brightly, following Arthur inside. 

“Would you give it a _rest_?” Arthur snaps at his friend, toeing off his shoes beside the door and coming to join Morgana and Gwen in the living room. Lance follows, grinning.

“You’re going to have to break his heart _sooner_ or later,” he points out. “It’s not my fault you were so oblivious to your PA’s giant crush on you that you let it get to this point in the first place.”

Morgana belatedly remembers that while Lance and Arthur really do _adore_ each other, they will probably drive each other insane living under the same roof. It’s almost enough to make her wish Nimueh and the others would just make their next move already; all the waiting makes her feel anxious _all the time_. Tonight, she’s got a wicked tension headache that no amount of painkillers can put a dent in, and it’s making her feel tense and on edge.

“Yeah, well you’re a dick for not _saying anything_ ,” Arthur replies.

“Boys, could you _not_ ,” Morgana murmurs feebly, putting a hand over her eyes. 

“What’s the matter?” Arthur is at her side in a moment, pressing his hand against her forehead, feeling the glands in her neck in a way she’d probably find intrusive if only she could summon up the energy. “Are you all right?”

“She’s got a headache,” Gwen offers, from where she’s curled up in an armchair with a book. She has been lovely and quiet and has even been using a lamp so the rest of the room is restfully dark for Morgana; she’s a considerably easier person to live with than either Arthur _or_ Lance. 

Gwen’s words do not in any way stop Arthur from prodding at her in a concerned fashion, until Morgana bats his hands away. “It’s a _headache_ , Arthur,” she tells him, “I’ve had them before. You don’t need to fuss over me.” She gazes blearily at her flatmates, all of whom are looking at her with badly-concealed fear. Morgana has enough of a migraine without having to deal with _this_. “Can’t you all go out for dinner or something?” she asks. “We’re all going to go mad if we stay cooped up in here all the time.”

“I’ve got some paperwork to look over,” Arthur says, “But if Lance and Gwen want to go out then…”

Morgana carefully files away what is very _possibly_ Arthur’s clumsy attempt at matchmaking for examining when her head feels less like it’s about to explode.

“I’ll get out of your hair,” Gwen smiles, squeezing Morgana’s shoulder. “Lance?”

“Feel better, Morgana,” Lance tells her, and then the two of them are grabbing bags and coats and disappearing.

“Arthur,” Morgana groans, “You can get _off_ me. I’m _fine_. I’m going to take some paracetamol and go to bed and sleep this off.”

“All right,” Arthur says grudgingly, “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

Morgana takes her pills, changes into her pyjamas and brushes her teeth, all the while trying to keep her eyes closed. Any kind of light sears into her eyeballs and makes her head pound even more, and she supposes that she’s just skipped a little too much rest recently. Her bed is large and cool, the pillow soft against her aching head, and she slips off to sleep easily.

…

_Snakes slither down the wet pavement, and she can see the fear in Arthur’s eyes as though she is standing right beside him. He’s never liked snakes, and these ones are large and fat and green and although they’re only animals that can’t have any idea what they’re doing the malevolence in their eyes is truly incredible. Abandoning rationality, Arthur runs, feet splashing through the puddles on the ground, while the snakes speed up to chase him. She can hear laughter, and is about to turn and see who it is when one of the snakes explodes with a loud bang that echoes off the stone wall nearby._

_It looks like a church, she thinks, tearing her eyes away from Arthur, one of the imposing gothic ones with statues carved right up the walls, and the sky is a deep, tinny silver, rain pouring down in cold sheets. It bounces off the pavements and hits Morgana’s skin so hard that it hurts. Smoke drifts past her vision and she turns; she can’t see anything but fire, can hear shouting but can’t make out the words. The rain is having no effect on the flames, which are almost blue with intense heat, leaving scorch marks on the pavement, and she squints through the thick grey haze of rain to try and see what’s going on, but can’t make out anything but the stream of fire burning bright enough to hurt her eyes and hot enough that she can feel it even from a distance._

Morgana twitches in her bed, the pain in her head increasing. She knows she’s dreaming, and she knows that this is important, but the agony in her brain is almost enough to pull her awake.

_Blood is streaming down Arthur’s face; she can’t tell if his nose is broken or if he’s just been hit incredibly hard. The rain water turns pink, mingling as it runs down his face, and when he grins his teeth are crimson too. He’s yelling and she can see Valiant, eyes narrowed and cruel, seeming so much larger and stronger than Arthur, advancing with slow menace through the pouring rain._

_She turns her head; white shapes stream past her, and she can’t tell if they’re beautiful or terrible but their feet ring loud on the ground, almost deafening, and she hears a shout and the fire seems to burn brighter and hotter and it hurts her eyes._

Morgana whimpers; it’s too much, too intense, far too real, and she needs to wake up now, but even as she begins to make out the dim forms of the furniture in her room the dream comes up behind her and drags her back down again.

_There’s blood on the pavement, trickling away from a dark shape in thick lines, though she can’t tell who is dead, and Lance is backing away with one hand clasped to his arm, agony raw on his face. She can’t see Arthur anywhere, and the flames have gone, leaving thick burnt lines on the ground._

_Someone is yelling in fear, and she turns to see herself. But she barely recognises the Morgana in the dream; she’s limping, clinging to a scared-looking Gwen, skin ashen, eyes sunken into her head. Dream Morgana can barely stand, every step a stumble, and Gwen’s fingers tighten around her arms._

_She looks at herself, and knows that she has gone insane._

Morgana forces herself awake on a gasp, whole body trembling and drenched in sweat. The pain in her head is almost unbearable, making her feel like she could actually _explode_ at any moment, and she can’t spare the breath to make a sound. Trembling hands clenching in the sheets, she manages to sit herself upright, the world spinning around her at a terrifying speed, and for one long second of terror she honestly believes she’s going to die.

After a moment, the pain begins to ebb away a little, though the nausea remains, intensifying with every breath she takes, and Morgana fumbles her way out of bed because she is honestly going to throw up any second. She staggers across her room, the ground moving beneath her, one hand pressed to her aching head, and she wants to call out for Arthur but she can’t make a sound. It’s like a nightmare, or at least it’s like nightmares have been _described_ to her. She’s never had a dream before, never had a nightmare, not one that didn’t come true later.

The bathroom is two doors down from her room, but she’s barely made it three steps down the hall before images plaster themselves across her eyes.

_Nimueh raises a glass, rain water pouring into it, and her mouth curves into a triumphant smile._

Morgana’s whole body jerks, and she presses a hand to her mouth.

_A white shape gallops towards Arthur; it has a foot-long spike on its forehead. Arthur’s eyes widen with fear but there’s no time; he throws his arms out and his head back, mouth moving but the words are lost beneath the rain, and is impaled instantly._

She reaches for the wall, fighting desperately to stay upright as the world dips and sways around her and her knees tremble. She’s never seen the future while awake before, _never_ , and it’s overwhelming and overpowering. She can’t breathe. _She can’t breathe_.

_The glass shatters against the ground. Merlin’s eyes widen and then his body falls inelegantly, crumpled like a rag doll as the rain continues to pour._

Morgana pulls her hand from her mouth and finds her fingers wet with blood. Her knees give and she lands hard on the hallway floor, and she prays Arthur can hear her because she’s not sure she can survive much longer and she has to _tell_ him. She chokes, her own blood running from her nose and spreading thickly over her lips; all she can taste is copper and salt and she feels like someone has shut her in a box and is shaking it vigorously.

_Dream Morgana trembles, held upright only by Gwen’s force of will, head lolling and words of nonsense spilling from her mouth. Her lips are bloodless and she’s soaked, dark hair plastered flat to her head, and when Gwen shifts her and her hair moves she can see that Dream Morgana’s ears are bleeding, thin red trickles sliding down her neck._

_“I trust you,” Dream Morgana gasps, and she isn’t talking to Gwen; Gwen who is sobbing and lowering her to the flooded pavement, “I trust you when the time comes to do the right thing.”_

_And then all the fight goes from her body, leaving her limp._

Morgana clenches a hand against the floor but can’t push herself upright; her breath comes in short sharp gasps and the pain is excruciating. Images dance before her eyes so fast she can no longer keep track or make sense of them, and she’s choking on the taste of her own blood.

“MORGANA!”

She hears the yell but all she can see is her own hair, the floor cool against her cheek. 

“Morgana, no, please,” and Arthur is beside her, pulling her up into his arms, cradling her. A tear streaks down his cheek and she can’t have him being worried about her because he has to worry about _himself_.

“Morgana, fight it. Whatever the hell is happening, you have to fight it.”

_Arthur screams Merlin’s name into the rain, his face stained crimson, a sword falling from his numb fingers. But he receives no answer, and he has lingered too long, and it is already too late._

Her body convulses and she cries out.

“I’m calling Gaius,” Arthur tells her, voice trembling, “He can fix this, Morgana, he can save you, it’s going to be all right.”

He’s fumbling his phone from his pocket, still holding her, and Morgana needs him to understand. She reaches up, catching his cheek with her bloody fingers, and insists:

“It’s going to get much, _much_ worse…”

And then the future swallows her whole again, and she doesn’t manage to get back out.

^ 

Uther and Gaius have been friends for longer than Arthur has been alive. He’s never been entirely sure what brought them together; Gaius is far kinder and sentimental than Uther, willing to give the occasional inch. Arthur’s father has never been anything less than determined and unyielding. Oh, he cares about his children, but he does his very _best_ not to show it too often.

Gaius is a doctor and so has been there all of Arthur’s life, every time he got ill, every time he got hurt playing sports at school, and even since he’s left home Gaius is still the one he calls up when he gets man flu. Gaius knows about Morgana’s abilities; when they were teenagers he helped Morgana to control them better, and taught Arthur to help her. If anyone knows how to fix whatever’s happened to Morgana, Gaius will.

Arthur stays sitting on the cold hall floor, Morgana cradled in his arms, as he waits for Gaius to arrive. He’s called Gwen and Lance and ordered them straight home, and now he feels horribly useless. Fear and shock are clawing at his insides, making the world too bright and entirely unreal, and his heart is pounding against his ribs. Morgana’s nose and ears are bleeding and while she no longer seems to be having a fit, her body is still shaking, her eyes roaming desperately behind her closed lids. She’s seeing the future, Arthur knows, but he’s seen her dream the future before and it was never like _this_. She’s in pain, and she’s ill, and when he touches her skin she’s absolutely burning up.

“You said it was just a _headache_ ,” he hisses at his unresponsive stepsister, and his voice is thick. “You said it was a fucking _headache_. This is the last time I listen to you!”

Morgana stays limp as a doll in his arms. Arthur swallows too hard, and wonders if she’s actually going to die, right here, right now. If he’ll feel her last breath against his chest. He brushes her wild hair off her face, horrified at how pale she is. _It’s going to get much,_ much _worse…_ He won’t let her last words to him be a warning. 

Arthur had a set of keys cut for Gaius when they first moved in, as a precaution. He still jumps when the front door opens, clutching Morgana closer as though he can somehow protect her from anything. Gaius stares at him for a moment, clasping his convulsing, bleeding sister, horror in his expression, and then snaps into calm professionalism.

“We’ll move her to her room,” he says with authority, and Arthur is so relieved to pass the responsibility to someone else that he could cry. But he doesn’t; he just shifts his grip on Morgana as Gaius lifts her legs and they carefully carry her back to her room. They lay her on her mattress, and Arthur strips the blankets from the bed as Gaius puts his bag down and perches beside Morgana to examine her. 

“I need light,” Gaius says, and Arthur hurries to go and flick the switch on. Morgana trembles when he does, turning her head as though to try and block the light, but when Arthur reaches to turn it off again Gaius shakes his head.

Arthur watches anxiously, arms folded across his chest, as Gaius checks Morgana’s pulse, temperature and breathing, peels back her eyelids, and opens her mouth. 

“It’s like her power is overloading,” Arthur blurts, as Gaius tips Morgana’s head to look into her ears. “She could see the future while she was _awake_ , Gaius, and it was hurting her. She couldn’t control it.”

Gaius nods, sitting back and removing the instrument from Morgana’s ear.

“She’s been drugged,” he says quietly. “She’s been poisoned so that her ability will work against her.”

“Is she going to die?” Arthur asks anxiously, his voice cracking halfway through the sentence.

“No,” Gaius replies. He sounds certain and firm, and Arthur’s knees go weak with relief. He reaches into his bag, bringing out a small box which, when he opens it, is full of syringes. He rips open a small sterile pad, wiping the crook of Morgana’s elbow, before sliding a needle into her skin.

“What are you doing?” Arthur asks.

“It’s a sedative,” Gaius responds. “Morgana will fall into a deep, almost dreamless sleep. The drug should wear off in a few hours, and the sedative will ensure she’s safe until then.”

Arthur nods, not entirely sure he’s capable of speaking, when he hears the front door open again. 

“Arthur!” Lance calls.

Gaius offers Arthur a small smile. “She won’t die while you’re gone, Arthur.”

Arthur nods and hurries out of Morgana’s room. Lance and Gwen look sick with fear.

“What’s happened?” Gwen demands.

“Someone poisoned Morgana,” Arthur responds flatly. “Her powers got out of control. But she’s going to be all right now.”

“Thank God,” Lance breathes, but there’s something else on his face. He glances at Gwen, whose mouth tightens.

“ _What_ ,” Arthur demands.

Gwen reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder. “Edwin’s outside,” she tells him.

“He’s… _what_?”

“He’s just standing there, looking up at your windows,” Lance adds. “He’s not doing anything. I don’t think he even noticed us.”

Edwin kills people. Edwin is a scientist who could easily synthesise a drug to make someone’s powers start hurting them. Edwin managed to get this drug to Morgana in spite of Arthur’s best attempts to protect her.

Arthur sees red.

He isn’t aware of telling his limbs to move, but he’s halfway out the door screaming _I’ll fucking kill him_ before Lance grabs him and drags him backwards.

“Let me go!” Arthur shouts, struggling against Lance’s vice-like grip, “I’m going to fucking _kill_ him!”

“Arthur.” Gwen steps out in front of him, and though her eyes are glistening with tears and her face is drawn with fear, she looks resolved. “Arthur, Edwin will _incinerate_ you before you get anywhere close to him.” 

“I don’t fucking _care_ ,” Arthur spits, elbowing Lance in the ribs. His friend hisses, but doesn’t let go.

“Morgana will when she wakes up,” Gaius tells him from the doorway. His calm, clear voice breaks into the heat filling Arthur’s head, and he pulls in a ragged breath. “Do I need to sedate you too?”

Arthur takes a slow breath, and then another one, and sags. Lance lets go of him. “No,” he murmurs. “No, I won’t go. I just… I hate the idea of _hiding_ from him.”

Gwen puts her hands on his shoulders. “We’re not hiding,” she tells him firmly. “And when Morgana is well, we will punish him. We will _stop_ him. But now isn’t the time.”

As the adrenalin seeps from his body, Arthur feels increasingly weak. “Right,” he mumbles, “Fuck this.” He drags some strength up from somewhere, and fixes Gwen with a stare. “You will call Merlin,” he says, “And you will tell him to get the fuck over what he thinks he’s doing, and you will tell him to get a taxi here immediately.”

“It’ll cost a fortune,” Lance comments.

“My father is a billionaire,” Arthur points out between his teeth. “Gwen, _call him_.”

Gwen nods, stepping back and fumbling in her bag for her phone. Arthur returns to Morgana’s room, Lance following him, and together they watch helplessly as Gaius cleans the blood from Morgana’s face and neck. She’s very still, eyes dark hollows, but Arthur can see her breathing and he forces himself to remember that he has saved her and she is not dead. She is not dead, and she is not going to be dead.

Gaius pulls the electric thermometer from Morgana’s ear and smiles slightly as he looks at the reading.

“Her temperature is going down,” he says. 

Arthur nods numbly. Lance, beside him, doesn’t seem to be capable of speaking, eyes fixed on Morgana.

“Merlin’s on his way,” Gwen says, slipping into the room. “He’ll be about an hour.”

“That’s good,” Gaius says, smiling at her. “You know, Guinevere, this is the last place I expected to see you.”

“I could say the same,” she replies, throwing her arms around him. “Oh, _Gaius_ , I’m so glad you’re here.”

Arthur gets the feeling he’s missing something. “What-”

“Gaius is Merlin’s godfather,” Gwen explains, letting go of the older man. “He got me through chicken pox when I was seven.”

Arthur can’t help reflecting how strange it is, that he and Morgana and Merlin and Gwen have been so closely linked all their lives, but yet they haven’t met until recently. But he doesn’t know if that’s important or just a coincidence, and either way he can’t think about that now. 

“Guinevere,” Gaius says quietly, “I’d like you to go and make us all some very hot, very sweet tea. I think it will help.” He catches Lance’s eye. “And if you could get me some ice in a teatowel, I’d be grateful.”

They hurry to obey, and Gaius fixes Arthur with a sharp look.

“Did I hear them say that someone named Edwin is outside?”

“Yes,” Arthur replies.

“Would this be Edwin _Muirden_ by any chance?” Gaius asks.

“I don’t know,” Arthur replies. “All I know is that he can create fire on a thought and apparently half his face is melted.” Gaius grimaces slightly, but Arthur catches it anyway. “Do you know him?” Arthur demands.

“I know _of_ him,” Gaius replies, and Arthur thinks he might be lying although he doesn’t know why Gaius would. “You believe he poisoned Morgana?”

“He’s already tried to murder her once,” Arthur replies tightly. “And he burned down Merlin and Gwen’s flat. And one of his friends tried to drown me in the Thames, and his mate Nimueh killed Merlin’s friend right in front of us.”

Gaius goes pale; for a moment it looks like he’s going to collapse. “William?” he breathes. Arthur is about to ask how he knows, and then reflects that if Gaius really _is_ Merlin’s godfather then of course he’d know Will.

“Yes,” Arthur replies, and he knows he should stay calm and think about this, but the words keep spilling out. “Pretty much every person in London with a stupid magical power has decided to kill us and it is getting pretty fucking _boring_ trying to sleep with one eye open because we haven’t done anything and yet that doesn’t seem to bother _them_.”

“I didn’t know about this,” Gaius murmurs.

“Why would you?” Arthur asks.

Gaius doesn’t reply, but looks absolutely _sick_. Arthur turns his attention to Morgana, who sleeps on, though at least she no longer seems to be dreaming.

^

Lance gets Merlin from the cab, completely overpaying the driver. He keeps glancing around them anxiously, though won’t tell Merlin what he’s looking for, fingers curled tight around Merlin’s upper arm.

“How’s Morgana?” Merlin asks anxiously, when they’re in the lift.

“She’s asleep,” Lance replies. “Gaius sedated her so she can sleep Edwin’s drug off. He says she’ll be ok.”

Merlin nods, still feeling nauseous with anxiety. 

“How’s Arthur?” he enquires after a moment. Gwen, when hastily filling in the details, told him that Arthur had found Morgana having some sort of fit in the hall, and Merlin can’t even begin to imagine what that would have felt like.

“He’s a wreck,” Lance replies tightly. “He’s not showing it, but he’s falling apart.”

Merlin nods, and doesn’t say anything until they get into the flat. Gaius is there, as Gwen said he was, and he offers Merlin a quick smile.

“Can you come with me, Merlin?” he asks lightly, but Merlin can see worry etched onto his godfather’s face. Lance says he’ll tell the others that Merlin is here, and Merlin follows Gaius into Morgana’s room.

She looks dead, and it takes Merlin a moment to notice that she’s breathing.

“I’ve helped her,” Gaius tells him. “For now, anyway.”

In that moment, Merlin realises that there’s something Gaius hasn’t told the others. They all think Morgana is going to be fine; looking at Gaius, Merlin can tell that maybe she _won’t_.

“What do I need to do?” he asks.

“I know the way Edwin Muirden works,” Gaius explains quietly, pushing Merlin towards the bed, “He’ll have implanted something inside Morgana’s head to transfer the poison to her system. I’ve stopped the effects of the drug for the moment, but unless we can get it out of her, she’ll only relapse.”

“So you want me to get whatever it is _out_?” Merlin asks, feeling queasy.

“Yes,” Gaius responds. “Because if you can’t I’m going to have to rush her to hospital for emergency neural surgery.”

Merlin can feel the weight of Morgana’s life settling over him, but he grits his teeth and obediently sits down beside her. 

“I can’t move things unless I know exactly where they are,” he says weakly.

“Please try,” Gaius tells him. “I believe you can do it. Take your time.”

He doesn’t say _if you get this wrong you could actually kill her_ , which Merlin is incredibly grateful for. Instead, he leans over Morgana, pushing her dark hair back. Her skin is too warm, and he cups his hands over her ears. Shutting his eyes, he starts breathing slowly and evenly until he’s as calm as he’s going to get. _Something is inside her that shouldn’t be_ , he thinks, and tentatively begins to feel around in her head with his power. He’s never done anything like this before; he did a few things in _theory_ with Gaius when he was a teenager, but gave up because it freaked him out. Now, he doesn’t have a choice, and can only hope he doesn’t permanently hurt Morgana.

Merlin thinks he finds something. “Gotcha,” he murmurs, screwing his eyes tighter shut, and carefully begins to pull at it, hoping to _God_ that he’s not going to end up accidentally pulling Morgana’s brain out of her ears. She doesn’t start bleeding, which is a good sign, and Merlin keeps gently tugging with his mind until he feels something small land in his palm. He sits back, keeping his hand closed.

“I think I’ve got it,” he says.

Gaius holds out a small sample pot, and Merlin carefully drops the object into it. Gaius snaps the lid on, and holds it up to the light. Merlin peers curiously at it… it appears to be a _dead fly_. Merlin makes a sound of disgust, which turns to one of horrified amazement as the fly suddenly starts twitching and then buzzing around the container.

“What the-”

“I need it for testing,” Gaius explains, dropping the container into his bag. “I need to know what Edwin drugged Morgana with in case he chooses to use it again.” He catches Merlin’s eye. “If he poisoned you with this…”

Merlin imagines that he could pull buildings and people apart if his powers got too strong, but tries not to think about that too hard.

“I will stay with Morgana,” Gaius tells him, “I think you should assure the others that she is already improving.”

“All right,” Merlin says.

Gaius offers him a broad smile. “You really are _incredible_ , Merlin,” he says, “I’m very impressed.”

Merlin wants to bask in the praise, but he feels too empty. Instead, he nods and smiles weakly, hurrying from the room.

Gwen and Lance are in the living room, sipping tea in silence and looking ill. Gwen is at Merlin’s side in a moment, wrapping her arms around him, and Merlin hugs her back, trying to stop the trembling. He knows how close he cut it, knows that he could so easily have _killed_ Morgana anyway, and clings to Gwen until the moment passes.

“Gaius says she’s already improving,” he tells them, finally letting Gwen go. “It’s all going to be fine.”

Lance smiles. “That’s good.”

Merlin looks between the two of them, and asks: “Where’s Arthur?”

“In his room,” Gwen replies. “We haven’t seen him in… a while.”

“I’ll go and see him,” Merlin decides. Gwen gives him an _are you sure this is the time?_ sort of look, but Merlin can only shrug. He doesn’t know. He just knows he needs to see if Arthur is all right with his own eyes.

He gets no reply when he knocks at the door, grits his teeth, and pushes it open.

Arthur is perched on the edge of his bed, head bowed, hands clenched in his lap. He is sitting absolutely still, though Merlin can see him trembling, just slightly. Merlin closes the door behind him and his nerve almost fails, but he can’t stand to see Arthur hurting, so he walks over.

“Hi,” he says quietly, awkwardly, and Arthur slowly raises his head. He’s too pale, eyes surrounded by bruised circles, and has four thick smears of blood on his cheek, tailing off on his chin. His blue shirt is equally stained, patches going brown and stiff, and Merlin tries hard _not_ to think about Morgana lying bleeding in Arthur’s arms because it makes him feel dizzy.

“Hi,” Arthur replies.

They look at each other for a moment, and Merlin’s tongue feels clumsy in his mouth; he can’t think of anything at all to say. Nothing reassuring, or sympathetic, or even to do with the possibly inadvisable sex they had nearly a week ago.

“You’ve got….” he begins feebly, reaching out to touch the streaks on Arthur’s cheek before catching himself and letting his hand fall.

Arthur raises a hand to his face, and Merlin notes that his fingers and palms are bloodstained too.

“Right,” Arthur mumbles. “I should…”

He gets up and staggers towards his en suite bathroom. Merlin hesitates for a second and then follows him. Arthur has both taps running and is splashing water ineffectually at his face, breathing too hard.

“Stop it,” Merlin says quietly, coming up behind him. He reaches his arms around Arthur, putting his hands over his wrists, keeping him still. He hears Arthur’s breath catch but really doesn’t know what to do with that, and so reaches for the bar of soap sitting on the edge of the sink. Together, they wash Morgana’s blood from Arthur’s hands, staining the soap momentarily pink, but soon his hands are clean and Merlin knows more than to prolong the moment, even if he is quietly enjoying their fingers twining together in the water. 

Merlin forces himself to step back, reaching for a towel. He dries his hands and then hands the towel to Arthur, who takes it without looking at him. He’s still got Morgana’s bloody fingerprints on his cheek, and Merlin steels himself, looking in Arthur’s bathroom cabinets for something to clean his face with. He’s unsurprised to find that Arthur has more hair, skin and body products than is at all natural, and manages to unearth a packet of face wipes full of extracts from plants and vitamins Merlin has never heard of. He suspects they’re hideously expensive but pulls one out and turns back to Arthur.

“Oh, no,” Arthur says, and he sounds a little more like himself. “I can do that _myself_.”

He holds out his hands, but Merlin evades him, smoothing the wipe quickly and cleanly over Arthur’s cheek. He feels Arthur’s teeth clench.

“Merlin…” he mutters, sounding irritated.

“There you go,” Merlin replies, offering him a smile, binning the stained square of cloth.

Arthur looks like he’s thinking about thanking him, but his personality is getting in the way. That’s a relief, though Merlin will never tell him that; he thinks he prefers Arthur a little obnoxious. It’s better than crushingly pitying, anyway. 

“Morgana’s going to be fine,” Merlin tells him. “And we are going to really, _really_ hurt Edwin for this.”

Arthur smiles weakly but genuinely. “Well, I suppose you’d be the one to ask about _killing people_.” He shrugs. “Considering what you did to Sophia and everything.”

“…She wasn’t a very good girlfriend,” Merlin points out feebly.

Arthur’s smile widens a little, and his eyes are soft. “No,” he says, “I suppose she wasn’t.”

Merlin realises that, somehow, in spite of everything, they’re having a _moment_. He doesn’t understand, and it scares him; Arthur tolerates more than _likes_ him, and Merlin was an idiot and jumped him because he was lonely, and somehow they’ve tangled themselves _here_.

He looks away, breaking whatever the hell kind of connection they just created, and mutters: “We should talk.”

Arthur sighs. “We should,” he agrees, “But my sister nearly died tonight, and I know you’re not exactly the King Of Tact, but do you really think this the time?”

“I think this is just the tip of the iceberg,” Merlin mutters, as Arthur walks past him back into his room. He follows him. “We should get the air clear before we get ourselves killed.”

Arthur sits back down on the end of his embarrassingly huge bed, and quirks an eyebrow at Merlin. “ _I_ have no intention of getting myself killed,” he informs him, but Merlin can read the shred of anxiety under his words and can see that Arthur is doing his best, but is still barely holding himself together.

Merlin smiles feebly and sits down beside Arthur, leaving a careful distance between them.

“Look,” he sighs, really wanting to back out of this conversation but deciding if he’s mature enough to inadvertently _murder people_ then he must be mature enough to still talk to people he’s slept with. “I think we can agree that what we did was stupid; it was the wrong place and the wrong time and you were really _wonderful_ all day – which I haven’t thanked you for yet, so, you know, thank you for being… incredible – and… and now I’m babbling but seriously, Arthur, I’m sorry.”

Arthur does something strange with his mouth, but when he speaks all he says is: “You don’t have to apologise, Merlin.”

Merlin smiles slightly. “Well, I suppose I should be grateful you’re not offering to buy me a pony.”

Arthur smirks. “Well, are there any TV shows you want rescuing?” he offers.

“ _Ugly Betty_ has just been axed,” Merlin replies. “But… I’m sure I’ll survive.”

They sit in silence, and Merlin wants desperately to just say _fuck it_ and change the direction of this conversation completely, but there’s no point in pushing it. Instead, he plucks up his courage and stammers:

“Are we ok? Because, well, I thought we were sort of on our way to becoming friends, and I really don’t want to have buggered that up.”

He manages to keep his sanity and not say _no pun intended_ , because he’s pretty sure Arthur would hit him for that.

Arthur doesn’t look at him for a moment, but when he does meet Merlin’s eyes he’s smiling.

“It’s ok,” he tells him. “You haven’t… buggered anything up.”

Merlin nods, standing up. “I should go and see how Gwen is feeling,” he says, “And… you should change your shirt.”

Arthur looks down, seeming to notice the blood smeared all over his Ben Sherman. “Right,” he mutters.

He is halfway to the door when Arthur says: “Merlin…”

Merlin turns back, raising inquisitive eyebrows. Arthur seems about to say something, but he gives up.

“Try and get some rest,” he offers, and Merlin leaves, thinking that it went far better than expected.

^

“I think I may have drunk too much tea,” Gwen complains after a while. She’s sitting on one of the gigantic sofas, flicking through the latest incongruous coffee table book; this one is about nineteenth century ships. The pictures are very pretty, but as far as Merlin is aware neither Arthur nor Morgana have ever expressed an interest in sailing at _all_.

“Is it really possible for someone to drink _too much_ tea?” Merlin asks, smirking.

“Yes,” Gwen sighs. She turns a page and stares at the illustrations for a while. “How did it go with Arthur?”

“He didn’t offer to buy me a pony,” Merlin replies softly.

Gwen closes the book with a loud snap and leans forward to put it back on the coffee table. She slides sideways on the sofa to face Merlin, crossing her legs.

“That bad, huh?”

Merlin smiles feebly. “No, it wasn’t… _no_.” He shifts awkwardly. “It went ok, actually.”

Gwen reaches forward to catch his hands, holding them safe in hers. “That’s good,” she says. Her gaze drops, and she squeezes his hands tightly. “I’m glad you’re here,” she murmurs. 

Merlin squeezes back.

“It’s going to be all right, Gwen,” he promises. “I won’t let anyone hurt you. I’ll _die_ before I let anyone hurt you.”

She looks up, dark eyes full of anguish. “That’s the problem,” she tells him sadly. 

Merlin thinks of Morgana, lying half-dead four rooms away, and all because Edwin sent a fly in through an open window. Maybe there isn’t any way to protect themselves; maybe they’ve got to stop defending and start attacking.

“Edwin was outside earlier,” Gwen says softly. “When Lance and I got back. He was… standing there. And the look on his _face_.”

She looks so afraid that Merlin can’t help saying: “No, that _is_ his face.”

Gwen’s lips twitch. “Merlin,” she presses, “We are so beyond _fucked_ that it really isn’t funny any more.”

“No,” he sighs, “No, it really isn’t.”

He pulls her close and she wraps her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder. He holds her safe and tight, and promises himself over and over that he will not get Gwen hurt. He will not have dragged her into a situation that will get her injured. _He will not._

The door opens, and Gaius comes in. Gwen sits up, wiping at her eyes.

“I am going home,” Gaius tells them. “Morgana’s fever has gone, and she is sleeping naturally; she’ll be awake in a few hours. I need to conduct some experiments to find out what poison Edwin created; the sooner I get the results the better.”

Merlin nods. “Thanks for everything, Gaius,” he tells him. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Take care, both of you,” Gaius says, and underneath his gruff exterior Merlin can see real concern.

“We will,” he promises.

When he’s gone, Gwen picks up the coffee table book again, and Merlin decides to go and see Morgana, for the reassurance. She’s looking a lot better, a pink flush rising in her cheeks, and her eyes are no longer roving behind her closed lids. Her breathing is even and Gaius has pulled her duvet back over her. Merlin takes her hand, and can feel that she isn’t shaking any more.

“Oh, thank _God_ ,” he murmurs, letting her go. She doesn’t wake, but her head tilts towards him, lips opening slightly. Merlin feels a broad, relieved smile spreading across his face; he feels nearly hysterical but swallows it down.

He’s just closing Morgana’s bedroom door when he hears someone’s breath catch; the door to Arthur’s room is half-open and Merlin is walking towards it when he sees inside.

“Arthur, it’s ok,” Lance is saying, with strength and surety in his voice. “It’s _all right_.”

His hands are clasped tightly on Arthur’s shoulders, and Arthur himself is hyperventilating, completely breaking apart. Merlin takes a step so neither of them will spot him; but he can’t stop watching as sobs rip out of Arthur. They sound like they’re coming from somewhere deep and reluctant, being torn remorselessly out of him.

“I – and _she_ ¬¬– and she said – and – and –”

He’s sobbing so hard he can’t speak, and Merlin hasn’t felt this helpless since Will stopped breathing on the floor in front of him. Arthur Pendragon, who has always been relentlessly strong, is shattering into pieces, just for a moment, the noises he makes sounding completely wounded because every one hurts his _pride_ , and Lance just stands there and holds him upright and Merlin wonders how he could _ever_ have thought that he could have Arthur, not even for five minutes. They don’t know each other, and it’s all very well saying that they’re _friends_ , but Merlin wants to be the one in the room supporting Arthur as he splits. But he knows damn well that if he was in that room, Arthur wouldn’t be doing this. Arthur wouldn’t fall apart in front of him, and Merlin turns away from the door, feeling he’s intruding on something deeply, _painfully_ private.

Gwen is asleep on the sofa when Merlin goes back to the living room, head pillowed on the _stupid_ ship book. Merlin watches her for a moment, smiling softly, and then walks over to slide the book out from under her head. She half-wakes, and he tells her that everything’s _fine_ , sitting down and resting her head in his lap. Gwen curls her hand over his knee, and he strokes a hand through her hair, looking out of the window and watching the sun rise.

^

The real world looks unreal, discoloured, when Morgana finally opens her eyes. She has spent endless hours trapped in the future; where the whole thing was far too bright and it _ached_. Arthur is sitting beside her, propped up against the pillows.

“You look bloody awful,” she tells him.

His lips quirk in a smile. “You’re one to talk,” he replies.

Morgana’s whole being feels heavy, groggy. Her hand trembles as she reaches for Arthur’s.

“How long have I been out?” she asks.

“All night,” Arthur replies. “It’s ten past nine in the morning.”

“God,” Morgana mutters, “That would explain it.”

Arthur’s grip tightens fractionally. It hurts; every inch of Morgana feels too sensitive. 

“What’s going on?” he asks her quietly.

“I’ve seen what’s going to happen,” Morgana tells him softly. “I know what’s coming and when and where and how. No mystery left.”

She sees a trace of fear on Arthur’s face; she can hardly imagine how she must be coming across; half mad, and yet with a veneer of terrifying certainty.

“Edwin poisoned you,” he says, “Sent your powers into overdrive. You could have _died_.”

Morgana knows only too well, but she also knows it isn’t her time yet. She won’t mention any of this to Arthur, because he’s been scared enough tonight.

“I’m sorry,” she offers instead.

“You’ve got nothing to apologise for,” Arthur protests. 

Morgana squeezes his hand, ignoring the pain of movement. 

“We’re going to stop Edwin,” Arthur tells her firmly, half angrily. “Merlin has come back, we’re going to stop hiding.”

Morgana wants to tell him not to, that she’s seen far too much of the consequences of this course of action, but she suspects that it will be far worse if they don’t try. She wants to slide under her covers, wants to be able to sleep like a _normal_ person and hide away from everything until the world isn’t in pieces, but instead she makes a concerted effort to pull herself together.

“And how _are_ things with Merlin?” she asks archly.

Arthur rolls his eyes at her. “I thought you could see the future,” he says. “Surely you’re the one who can tell me whether Merlin and I are _destined_ to be together or whatever.”

Morgana laughs at him. “I don’t exist _solely_ to tell you how your life’s going to pan out,” she smirks. “Go and read your horoscope.”

Arthur shrugs. “You’ve never dreamed about Merlin anyway,” he says.

She thinks about telling him that she saw Merlin, once, when she was awake and the future was still sticking to her eyes; but that was when she saw Nimueh murdering Merlin in the rain, and she doesn’t think it’s the time to bring that up.

“You’re avoiding the question,” she prods.

Arthur’s mouth twists uncomfortably, and he doesn’t look directly at her. “We’re _friends_ ,” he says, carefully significant.

Morgana puts her arms around him.

They sit like that for a while, and Morgana feels herself sinking back into the world, re-establishing her place in the present.

“I need to go and see Uther,” she tells him. “Can you go and ask Gwen to help me have a bath and get dressed? I’m not sure I’m capable yet.”

“I don’t think you should be getting up,” Arthur tells her.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” Morgana replies firmly. “I _need_ Uther to know the truth; I’ve lied long enough.”

Arthur’s expression is calculating but there’s no way he can guess what’s ahead – Morgana can scarcely believe it and she’s _seen_ all of it – and he obediently goes to get Gwen. 

For the next hour, Morgana puts up with everyone’s fussing, even though it stings because she has seen what will happen to them and she doesn’t think she can _stop_ it, and gets clean, gets dressed, and calls a taxi to take her to Pendragon Industries. Arthur offers to come with her, but she refuses; she thinks she’s scaring all of them, but Morgana doesn’t know how to say that the woman who woke up this morning isn’t quite the woman who collapsed on the hallway floor yesterday. They’ll find out soon enough.

She waits outside Uther’s office, sat poised on the chair, and tries not to think about the fact she’s had this conversation three times over already. She hates to think that she’s only come here for the sake of continuity, and less for the love she has for her stepfather. But this is going to be her life for the next five days; she knows every second inside out. At the end of those five days… well, she only knows of two ways that it will end for her, and either way she won’t be concerned about what comes next.

Uther looks at her with concern when she comes in; Morgana suspects that she must look _dreadful_ , wan and ill with an unhealthy gleam in her eyes.

“I have something I need to tell you,” she says, slicing neatly through any attempts he might be about to make at smalltalk, because this is _too important_. “I should probably have told you a decade ago, but I didn’t.”

Uther doesn’t say anything, but leans forward, giving her his attention clearly. She can see flecks of concern in his eyes.

“I can see the future,” she says simply. Uther opens his mouth, but she shakes her head. “First, you’re going to tell me that that’s impossible and ask if Arthur and I are playing some sort of joke. Then, after a moment, when I’ve assured you that it’s not, you’re going to ask me whether it will be a financially sound idea to buy out the Griffin Corporation, and then I will tell you _yes_ ; but you should sell your shares in the Kanen Agency.”

Uther’s eyes are widening, but he doesn’t look afraid. Morgana wishes she could say that she was pleasantly surprised by this, but of course she’s already lived through this three separate times; her brain looped, forcing the future at her again and again until she saw every last detail. She would dearly love to murder Edwin for that, but she knows it isn’t _her_ place. 

They talk a while longer, and Morgana does her best to pay attention to the conversation as she relates chosen anecdotes about her _true_ past to Uther without giving anything at all away. Her mouth forms the words, but the déjà vu is so absolute that she’s almost _bored_. This is what Edwin’s drug has done to her; made her lose all interest in the here and now.

Uther hugs her when she leaves, and she tries to appreciate his hold because it’s _real_ , because it’s _now_ , unlike in her dreams. But her mind is already on what’s coming, and she hopes he can’t tell she’s no longer concentrating.

Arthur asked her to call a cab and come straight back when she’s finished her meeting; Gaius wants them to all go to his house, for a conversation that Morgana already knows about. But she doesn’t hail a black taxi that passes, instead walking away from the building and turning into a sidestreet. She takes three steps, and smiles.

“You might as well come out,” she says quietly, “I know you’re there.”

“Of course you do,” Nimueh replies, stepping in front of her. She’s dressed in deep red, a dress that should look stupid and excessive but it doesn’t. Morgana straightens her spine, and looks the other woman in her unnaturally blue eyes.

“I’d know even if I hadn’t seen it,” she tells her. “You’re here to offer once last chance for surrender.”

“You’ve seen what’s coming,” Nimueh smirks. “You’ve seen what will happen to your friends. You’ve seen what will happen to _you_. You must know that you cannot win.”

“You have no idea what I’ve seen,” Morgana responds steadily. “You’re guessing, but you don’t _know_.”

“You’ve come to die with a clean conscience,” Nimueh states. “You’ve come to tell your stepfather the truth. That tells me all I need to know.”

“I’m not going to _die_ ,” Morgana says, with a little more certainty than she feels. Her own future has two alternatives; only one of them is death. “We both know that, because we both know what Edwin has done to me, and how that will end.”

Nimueh tilts her head to one side; she’s still a _person_ , but she hasn’t been human in a long time. 

“Join us, and we can stop it.”

“ _Join_ you?” Morgana echoes. “I will not help you to kill the entire government and take England as a bargaining chip against the world. I will not help you make my brother and my friends second class citizens. I will not step up and take power that is not rightfully mine.”

“ _Rightfully_?” Nimueh’s face twists. “Morgana, you can _see the future_. You are _better_ than most of the pathetic people who walk the Earth, and it is blatantly ridiculous that you refuse to see that.”

Morgana sighs. She’s trembling. “We will stop you.”

Nimueh laughs, the sound smooth and cool. “You’re half out of your mind and Merlin is _afraid_ of his powers,” she points out. “And Arthur is certainly very pretty, but there’s really very little _he_ can achieve, and Gwen and Lance… well, the best that can be said about them is that they’re _determined_.” Her eyes are hard, predatory. “You cannot win, Morgana. Surrender, and I may allow them to live.”

Morgana sets her jaw. “I’ve chosen my side,” she says firmly. “And it is not _yours_.”

“Well then.” Nimueh holds out her hand. “I suppose _you_ know the time and place.”

“I do,” Morgana agrees, ignoring her gesture. “And you don’t. Doesn’t that scare you?”

Nimueh reveals her white teeth. “ _No_.”

And she’s gone; she doesn’t _disappear_ , she just moves implausibly fast. Feeling suddenly weak, Morgana leans against the wall of the nearest building for support. She wants to scream, wants to burst into tears, but it won’t help. _Nothing_ can help now.

Instead, she walks back towards the street, pulling her mobile from her bag.

“Arthur? I’m on my way home.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a lot of bloodshed, a lot of rain, a reasonable amount of fire, a sword (or two), some snakes, and some weirdly malevolent unicorns.

_The anger swells in my guts  
And I won’t feel these slices and cuts  
I want so much to open your eyes  
‘Cause I need you to look into mine._  
\- Snow Patrol

Hiding on the stairs is really very childish and Merlin promises himself that he will _stop_ and go back to the living room in a minute, he really will. He will be grown-up and heroic and sensible and he will be able to cope with the situation and his friends and the growing, gnawing dread in his stomach. It’s just… everyone is being _completely_ unbearable, and he can’t stand watching Gaius be sharp and sensible, watching Morgana being ethereal and cryptic and mad-looking, watching Arthur trying to take charge and bear all of this in a way that’s so brittle it hurts to watch, Gwen and Lance being scared but resolute.

So he said he needed the loo and fled from Gaius’ warm, cluttered living room. The walls are lined with books and photographs and weird random souvenirs from when he went travelling as a younger man; every time he comes there’s something new to look at. Gaius collects things, stacking them up in an increasingly disordered way as he fills his home with memories. Merlin has spent large chunks of his life in this untidy Kensington house and normally feels reassured here, but right now no amount of reminiscing about spending summer afternoons in the garden can make him feel anything less than sick. He hasn’t slept in over a day and everything is getting blurry, like he’s looking at the world through smeared glass.

Gaius’ staircase is ridiculously steep; Merlin has fallen down it more times than he really cares to remember. The steps themselves are made of mahogany, polished until gleaming, and they’re not particularly comfortable to sit on, though Merlin can’t bring himself to get up and pick a direction. He feels a little like he’s stuck in that A.A Milne poem, trapped in limbo halfway up the stairs, clinging to the banisters because they’re reassuringly solid, which is exactly what he needs right now.

There are framed photographs all over the wall by the stairs. They’ve been there for years, but Merlin forces himself to stare at the familiar images to quell a possibly impending panic attack. His gaze locks onto a picture of himself, Gwen and Will at London Zoo; they were nine, he remembers, and Will’s mum had cancer for the first time. Gaius took the three of them out for the day to get them away from it all, and Merlin still remembers the details of that day with perfect clarity. Staring at the picture of the three of them laughing on a bench near the elephant house, he can still recall Gaius taking it; Merlin squashed between his friends and the sun baking down on them.

His throat is starting to tighten, so he looks away. Two frames to the left, his attention is caught by a boyish smile that has hardly changed over the last decade. Frowning, because he’s looked _over_ that picture a dozen times or more, Merlin edges closer and realises that, _yes_ , it’s Arthur and Morgana sitting on a picnic blanket. Arthur looks about thirteen, Merlin guesses, smiling that softly charming smile that is so rare these days, while Morgana looks dignified and beautiful, wearing a little too much eyeliner and the first hint of a smirk. It seems strange, that they’ve all been here on this wall, and yet it took them all so _long_ to meet in person.

Merlin edges up a couple more stairs, scanning other photographs for more images of Arthur or Morgana; he finds one of Uther Pendragon and Gaius looking a lot younger and really quite drunk. Maybe if he survives the next few days he’ll _ask_ ; maybe he doesn’t want to know. He smiles as he finds the picture of himself graduating university; his grin is almost comically wide, unable to hide how _proud_ he was of himself. But then he notices the picture next to it; and there’s no denying that’s _Arthur_. Arthur with his hair slightly longer than it is now, starting to curl at the ends, a look of smug pleasure on his handsome face. Merlin reaches towards the pictures, pushing the frames aside a little. The wallpaper behind is slightly faded, and it makes him smile almost unconsciously as he realises that he and Arthur have been here, side by side, for _years_.

The kitchen door opens, and Merlin shrinks against the wall, immediately forgetting all his resolutions to _be grown up_ and _return to the living room_. Morgana and Gaius have brewed yet more tea – Earl Grey for everyone but Arthur, who doesn’t like it, and is drinking Assam and glaring at anyone (well, Merlin) who teases him about having his _own special teapot_ – and are carrying it through to the others.

“Thank you,” Morgana says softly. “For what you’ve done for him.”

“You know?” Gaius sounds surprised.

“I know,” Morgana confirms. “Really, it’s very sweet of you.”

“Will it save him?” Gaius asks.

“Who can say?”

“Well,” and Merlin can _hear_ the smile in his godfather’s voice, “I suppose _you_ can.”

Morgana sighs. “Don’t ask me, Gaius,” she says softly. “Please don’t ask me.”

Merlin has no idea what they’re talking about, but is also aware that if they wanted the rest of them to know they wouldn’t be hiding in the hall having this conversation. He listens to Gaius and Morgana walk back into the living room, closing the door behind them, and tells himself that he’ll go and join the others now. He’ll go and join the stilted, anxious conversation and try to ignore the way everyone looks worn-out and incapable of saving the world or whatever the fuck it is they’re meant to be doing anyway.

He carefully slides down a few stairs, fingers clenched tight to the banister because he nearly gave himself concussion falling down when he was nine and he’s still perfectly capable of being clumsy and idiotic, and one of the photographs near the bottom of the stairs draws his attention. It’s of himself and Gwen and Will again; the three of them are eighteen, returning home during their first year of university. Gwen’s dad had been dead for six months and she was just starting to control the grief, and this was one of their first _good_ days. Gaius had sat the three of them down in his garden and taken the picture ‘for posterity’, and Merlin stares at that moment in time caught and put under glass and hung up on Gaius’ wall until his eyes itch. He reaches out, pressing shaky fingers to Will’s laughing face, and the bite of guilt and loss is so hard in his stomach that it feels like a _punch_.

A few minutes later, when the living room door opens and someone comes to join him on the stairs, Merlin assumes it’s Gwen. It’s usually Gwen; so it’s a bit of a shock when he finally looks away from the photograph to find Arthur perched on the step below him, expression sombre as he stares at the picture too.

“You miss him, don’t you?” Arthur says quietly.

Merlin shrugs. “I do,” he agrees. He sighs, because that doesn’t really feel like enough, and decides he may as well elaborate. “I want to _tell_ him, you know? I want to talk to someone who isn’t involved in all this. I want to sit down and say to someone: _hey, I’m about to get murdered by some crazy homicidal people with magical powers who don’t seem to know how to take ‘no’ for an answer._ ”

Arthur smiles slightly, and Merlin lets his hand drop back to his side. He’s left a smudge on the glass of the picture, but he doesn’t care.

“You’re not going to get murdered,” Arthur offers, with a smile he clearly thinks is _reassuring_. It isn’t. It actually looks a lot more like a pained grimace, but Merlin’s not going to tell him that because Arthur is doing his _best_. It’s not really _Arthur’s_ fault that he’s looking wan and nauseous and angry, and Merlin almost hates him for the way he looks _beautiful_ too. After all, Arthur’s weird random talent to look pretty _all the damn time_ is something Merlin really should have got used to by now.

“Gwen told me to tell you to stop being a child,” Arthur adds after the silence stretches on a little bit too long. He smirks minutely. “You look bloody _awful_ , by the way.”

Merlin rolls his eyes, but pushes himself to his feet anyway. His legs feel a little bit wobbly, just something else to add to the list of things caused by sleep deprivation, and sometimes he wishes Arthur weren’t so damned _chivalrous_ because the other man is on his feet a moment later, firm hands steadying him.

“You ok?” Arthur asks, soft and intense and concerned, and Merlin very nearly thinks _fuck it_ because all of Arthur’s facial expressions can really be sorted into two categories: ones that make Merlin want to punch him and ones that make Merlin want to kiss him, and this one is definitely the latter. 

“I’m dreadful,” Merlin responds as cheerfully as he can manage, looking away from the dizzying blue of Arthur’s eyes because that’s a road he really doesn’t have the time or the masochistic tendencies to go down right now (or _ever_ ), and taking a step forward so Arthur is forced to let go of him. “Aren’t you?”

Arthur quirks an eyebrow at him, expression mock-disdainful. “Less dreadful than _you_ ,” he says teasingly, and when they get to the bottom of the stairs he gives Merlin a shove towards the living room. Merlin obediently walks back in, to find Lance is asleep in one of the big, squashy arm chairs, Gwen is eating one of Gaius’ painfully addictive homemade scones, and Morgana is sitting bolt upright, staring out of the window with a downright terrifying placid expression on her face. She’s stopped blinking, Merlin notes with concern.

Gaius has already given them the _Edwin Muirden is a madman but a brilliant scientist, and although he did poison Morgana it should have worked its way out of her system by now_ speech, but none of them are leaving because once they walk out of the cosy certainty of Gaius’ home there’s the distinct possibility that the world will fall apart around them. Morgana’s the one with the details of course; Morgana who is changed, who is _broken_. Merlin can tell that a large part of her is still lingering in the future, that most of her didn’t make it back even after the drug wore off, and he hopes that when this is all over, one way or another, she’ll be _better_ , somehow.

He doesn’t miss the way Arthur’s eyes flicker anxiously towards his stepsister, nor the way his mouth tightens with muted fury or helplessness or misery. Even if he didn’t already have a dozen reasons to hate the people pulling their lives apart, Merlin would hate them solely for the fact they seem to have no hesitation about finding people’s weakest spots and then hitting them until they shatter. Morgana is the only one who Arthur would break for; the _only one_ , and Arthur is so brittle now that Merlin can barely stand to look at him.

“More tea, Arthur?” Gaius asks, a careful veneer of cheer that Merlin loves him for. He’s never known his father, and he’s never felt much urge to look him out, largely because Gaius has been all the father Merlin’s ever really needed. He’s so strong and sure and certain that Merlin finds the part of him that’s still a child thinking that nothing really _bad_ can happen while Gaius is here. 

Arthur looks like he’s about to refuse the tea when Morgana says: “You should drink it.” Even her voice sounds different; distant, vague, as though she’s speaking from far away. Arthur obediently accepts a cup, while Merlin goes to sit on the sofa with Gwen.

“You look like a zombie,” she tells him bluntly, sucking jam off her thumb.

“I’ve heard,” Merlin replies dully, taking the tea she passes him. He doesn’t really _want_ any more tea, but he’s too tired to fight. Instead, he sips at the warm Earl Grey, staring at a teetering pile of worn-looking leather-bound books by the fireplace, feeling his eyelids starting to droop. He sighs. Someone – Gwen, or Gaius, or maybe even Arthur – has dissolved some kind of sleeping pill into his drink. He’d protest, but even exhausted as he is, he’s not sure he can sleep on his own power. Gwen gives him a sheepish smile before his eyes close, and tucks a misshapen cushion under his head, stroking his cheek.

The warm, dark sleep that overwhelms him is a relief.

^

Edwin’s a clever bastard, and Morgana would admire him if she weren’t so devastated. Well, the part of her that’s still sane and human is devastated; the rest of her is merely bored. Gaius seems pleased to have figured out what Edwin did to her, and Morgana doesn’t have the heart to say what he’s _still doing_. 

Morgana is collateral. She’s the first of many prices they’ll have to pay. If she’d made her choice, if she’d left with Nimueh, she would have survived intact. Now, of course, it’s just a question of how many pieces she ends up in. Edwin _knew_ this, took _pride_ in this, and that would sicken Morgana if she were still capable of real emotions.

Lance drives them home; Arthur is really too sleep-deprived to be allowed to operate machinery of any kind. He sits curled in the passenger seat, staring out at the world with his bloodshot eyes, mouth thinned to a determined line. He’s so _brave_ , her Arthur, and she doesn’t warn him what’s to come because then he might not be brave any more, and if Arthur fails then the world will fall. Gwen dozes uneasily, Merlin sprawled across her. He needs his rest too, though of course Morgana can only guess at what will happen to _him_. She only knows how it will end, after all. It is strange, how she is omniscient and yet Merlin remains a large hole in her knowledge. It gives her hope that maybe someone will survive all this; not her, and not Merlin, and maybe not even Arthur depending on who wins and where, but _someone_ might. Gwen and Lance really didn’t ask for this and yet they’re steadfast; Morgana doesn’t think they’ll die and she hopes the future will stay that way.

It happens when they’re downstairs waiting for the lift. Lance and Arthur have Merlin supported between them, and the little part of Morgana that can still _feel_ things thinks it’s almost a pity Merlin isn’t awake to appreciate his position, and Gwen is tapping her foot against the ground impatiently.

_Lance is unflinching as he raises the gun, an expression she’s never seen on his face before, and Edwin unleashes a splash of flame hot enough to melt bullets._

Morgana sways on her feet, blinking until her vision clears and the shapes of the hall come back into view. Her mouth tastes sharp, salty, and she realises she’s bitten into her cheek. 

Arthur is frowning. “Morgana…” he begins.

“I’m fine,” she tells him. “Just tired.”

She manages a parody of a smile, her lips sliding uneasily against her teeth. It’s not a surprise; she knew this was coming, but she thought she’d have a little more time before it began. The lift arrives and they all troop in, Lance and Arthur careful not to whack Merlin against anything, and Morgana leans gratefully against the wall. Her whole body is tensed, her fingers curled into her palms, waiting for the future to knock her sideways again. 

They make it up to their mutated penthouse sort of thing – thanks to Merlin, Morgana will never think of it as anything _different_ – without any more attacks, and she grits her teeth, swallowing the sharp taste of blood. She has time, she tells herself, she has _time_.

Arthur and Lance carry Merlin into his bedroom to sleep off the rest of the pill, and Morgana mutters excuses and shuts herself in her room. Gwen’s eyes are narrowed with concern but she says nothing, and Morgana adores her for it.

Morgana stares at her pale reflection in the mirror, tracing her features with her eyes, memorising each and every one while she still can. Time is slipping away from her; she has _hours_ left, now, she knows. Mere hours before her world changes irrevocably. She grins at herself, wide and mad, and sees her teeth are stained red. She’ll have to do something about that before she faces the others again. Her expression falls again, and she sighs, allowing herself a couple of minutes for fear and regret before deciding to just let it all go because there’s no point fighting the things she cannot change.

Her survival is out of her hands now.

She turns away from the mirror, taking a breath. 

_Arthur bangs at thin air, screaming, fury and anxiety written across his face, blood dripping down his chin._

_“We can’t,” Gwen insists, words splitting between her sobs. Morgana can see herself, barely upright, struggling to form words, drenched in rainwater and looking like a corpse. “Arthur, we can’t go after him.”_

_“We can’t abandon him!” Arthur insists loudly, smacking his hand against the air again._

Morgana has been driven to her knees by the force of the vision, and she slowly pushes herself back to her feet, refusing to crumble. The time for that will come soon enough.

Edwin’s a bastard. Edwin’s a bastard who drugged her up with _two_ poisons, not one, because he’s cruel but not stupid. Not _ever_ stupid. The first drug was fast-acting, raping its way through her system and sending her powers into overdrive, but it was designed to burn out after a few hours, giving her the chance to surrender. The other drug was slower, created not to kick in until later, and this one won’t burn out. This is the one she has to watch out for; _this_ is the one that will kill her, and the only way to get the antidote is to give in.

_Arthur looks worn and tired, blood still encrusted on his face. “So you’re telling me the best possible scenario, the one I should be bloody hoping for, is that my sister goes insane?”_

_Gaius looks older than she’s ever seen him, dressed in his starched white lab coat. “At least then you can hope for periods of lucidity,” he responds. He sighs. “Brief periods of lucidity.”_

Morgana shivers, holding her eyes wide open until Gaius and Arthur fade and she’s left with her room again. Just her room; the dark wooden furniture, the black and white photographs on the wall, the vase of lilacs on her window sill. All hers and all familiar. She stumbles across the room towards the window, pulling the curtains apart. Light streams into the room and she stares down at the street far below her. The evening traffic jam has blocked the street, and people walk arm in arm on the pavement. Morgana reaches up a hand, laying it flat against the glass, closing her eyes. Her mouth still tastes like her blood and Edwin has sent her DNA into overdrive. Within hours, she’ll be trapped in a hallucination too vivid and too strong for her to ever break out of it. After that, she’ll only be able to look forward to… what will Gaius call it? _Brief periods of lucidity_. And that’s only _one_ possibility, only one way the future could turn out. Her other options are, somehow, even worse.

Stepping back from the window, Morgana looks bleakly around her room once more. She’s been happy here; happy with Arthur, happy in her life. Bored with the present, of course, sickened by the déjà vu – something she hadn’t noticed until Merlin stepped into her life and showed her that not _everything_ could be foreseen weeks in advance – and exhausted with the predictability of everything, but happy nonetheless. She misses the woman who lived in this room; Morgana feels like she’s cracked and broken and disappeared beneath the weight of these visions, the weight of what she’s learned, and the bite of loss is acute in her stomach.

_Nimueh is entirely dry, though the rain keeps falling. Her blue eyes are sharper than ever, her dark red mouth curled in triumph. She does nothing, because she doesn’t need to; not yet. She just watches, as Arthur runs for his life and Lancelot hesitates behind his gun and Merlin- Merlin…_

Morgana snaps immediately out of the vision, eyes still screwed up from trying to see the impossible. She gazes wildly around her room, as though Nimueh will suddenly step out of her wardrobe, and her eyes catch on her alarm clock. It’s one of the old-fashioned ones, large and silver and with bells on the top that ring. It ticks obnoxiously loudly; Morgana has got used to the sound but no one else ever has. Arthur usually complains about it when he comes into her room, saying that the sound makes him feel constantly on edge, and one of her exes said he could never sleep in her room because it was too loud. Right now, though, Morgana can’t hear it ticking; instead her attention is fixed to the time. She saw this, she’s seen this five times over. 

At seven o’clock exactly, the rain will start. 

Her clock is set _exactly_ right, correct to the last second. Morgana picks up the clock and runs to the window, knocking the vase to the floor and spilling flowers everywhere, and doesn’t even hear it smash as she pulls the window open. She’s seen this _five times_ and she knows what it means, but she can’t stop herself from hoping that maybe, just _maybe_ , her visions have fucked-up and she’ll be wrong. If she can be wrong about this then perhaps she’ll be wrong about other things too. With five seconds left on the clock face she braces her hands against the sill and leans out, not caring how crazy she might look. With her face upturned to the sky, she counts aloud.

“Five… four… three… two… one.”

Morgana shuts her eyes and for a blissful moment thinks she’s got away with it. And then the first drop hits her skin, and then the next, and when she opens her eyes again London is covered in dark clouds as far as she can see and sheets of rain are pouring down. On the pavement, pedestrians hold crumpled copies of _The London Paper_ over their heads, running for shelter, and Morgana tastes a scream against her teeth that she won’t let out.

She’s already soaked when she ducks back inside, pulling the window closed. The rain has begun and the pieces are in motion now. Everything has begun; and there is nothing, _nothing_ that she can do to stop it.

^

Gwen is curled up on her side and dozing next to Merlin when he finally eases his way out of his drug-induced sleep. It takes a while for the haziness to dissipate, but when it and the accompanying disorientation are gone, he realises that he does feel slightly less insane. Not a _lot_ less insane, given how _fucking crazy_ and unbelievable his life has become recently, but at least the world doesn’t seem to be swaying unsteadily around him any more. Merlin’s limbs feel heavy but he pushes himself upright anyway. He’s back in the room loosely designated as _his_ , and it’s sort of surreal. He hasn’t slept here since before Will was killed; the world was a little different then, and he misses it.

When Gwen still shows no signs of waking up, Merlin reaches out a hand to prod her until she opens her eyes.

“Brat,” she murmurs, batting at his hand and yawning. A smile spreads, soft and sweet, across her face. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty.”

Merlin waves a hand at the room, empty but for them. “I see no handsome prince,” he points out, and attempts not to pout. “I think I want my money back.”

“Arthur’s next door,” Gwen suggests mildly, sitting up. She immediately reaches for Merlin and starts flattening his hair; apparently it’s looking worse than usual. “Seriously, if you aren’t burnt to a crisp we’re getting you a haircut. It’s getting ridiculous, and we’ll never get you another job if you don’t start looking _tidier_.”

“You are not my mother,” Merlin says firmly, and then thinks about this. “And actually, my _mother_ made less fuss about my hair than you and Morgana and Arthur do, so really, can we let it go?”

“Maybe,” Gwen replies, “But your annoyed-face really is very pretty.”

“Careful,” Merlin teases, “Or Lance will get horribly jealous and you won’t get the chance to lay hands on his implausibly perfect arse.”

Gwen flushes a particularly interesting colour. “We don’t – I mean – it’s not…”

They’re so comfortable around each other that Merlin tends to forget that Gwen, when faced with _other people_ , is kind of inclined into descending into inane babbling and blushing. It’s really very sweet and endearing and works far more in her favour than Merlin’s please-like-me-I’m-really-not-as-incompetent-as-I-seem routine works in his.

“…And _breathe_ ,” he smirks, leaning to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Gwen nods, but doesn’t smile back.

“Lance is gone,” she tells him quietly.

Merlin feels his entire body turn to _ice_.

“Oh,” Gwen adds, “Not like that. I mean, he left a note and everything, and he says he’ll be back. But at the moment he’s… _gone_.” She grimaces. “We don’t know where, and Arthur is being quietly and unbearably frantic, so I’ve been making apple pie for the last hour because you were unconscious and Morgana won’t come out of her room.”

For a moment, Merlin just wants to ask Gwen for another sleeping pill and curl up underneath the duvet until this all goes _away_. But he knows it won’t help.

“What did Lance’s note say?” he asks instead.

Gwen shrugs. “Just that he needed to sort something out, and he’d be back, and not to worry.”

“So he hasn’t just run off to get away from the _inevitable doom_ thing?” Merlin smiles to take the sting out of the words.

“Lance isn’t that guy,” Gwen reminds Merlin gently.

“No,” Merlin agrees. Both Arthur and Lance, whatever their other faults, have this weird _chivalry_ thing going on, which is possibly what makes them both so attractive, other than the whole _God-like good looks_ thing. He stretches, straightening out the kinks in his spine, and reflects that he doesn’t feel too bad. At least, he no longer feels like a rag doll. “Did you say something about apple pie?”

“I’m restless,” Gwen replies, nodding. “You know, when I’m restless, I cook stuff. Plus, apple pie is fairly comforting, and I think everyone needs comfort food right now.”

Gwen’s mum died when she was about three – before she met Merlin anyway – and although it’s something that saddens her from time to time she’s always said she doesn’t really miss what she didn’t _have_. Her father, Tom, was _great_ ; growing up, he was Merlin’s other father-figure, and he doted on Gwen. Unlike most of the other fathers in Merlin’s admittedly limited acquaintance, Tom had got the hang of everything to do with raising a little girl – he could even braid Gwen’s hair beautifully – but he was a pretty terrible cook, no matter what he tried. By the time she was eight, Gwen decided she was sick of having burnt macaroni cheese three times a week, and took it upon herself to learn how to cook. She’s really good at it; something Merlin has probably abused a little too much in the years he’s been living with her, but she’s never said that she minds.

“Great,” he smiles, “Then I will have apple pie once I’ve had a shower.”

“Morgana wants to see you,” Gwen tells him. “Once you’ve properly woken up, I mean.”

The concern is a like a mask, tight across her face.

“How’s she looking?” Merlin asks anxiously.

“Ill. Slightly crazy. Like she hasn’t slept in about a year.” Gwen sighs. “She keeps insisting she’s _fine_ , but I really don’t think she is.”

None of this bodes at all well. Merlin hurries through his shower and gets shampoo in his eyes, repeatedly telling himself that whatever Morgana wants to see him about is probably not all that _bad_ and he should stop panicking about it. He gets dressed in clean clothes and runs a comb through his wet hair and tries to squash the knot of nervousness in his stomach. Finally, he can’t procrastinate any longer, and goes to knock on Morgana’s door.

The room is cold; the windows are shut, rain streaking down the panes, but there’s a chill in the air.

“Close the door behind you,” Morgana tells him, and even her voice has changed. It’s harder and colder and distant now. She’s sitting on a chair by her dressing table, wearing one of her silky dressing gowns, dark hair cascading around her shoulders. The lights are off, and she looks horribly pale in the meagre light coming from outside.

“Can I turn the lights on?” Merlin asks.

“Of course,” Morgana replies, as though things like _lights_ have entirely slipped her mind. Merlin clicks the switch and the room is immediately full of warm, bright light. Now he can see her, Morgana doesn’t look any less corpse-like. Merlin flinches.

“It’s that bad?” Morgana asks mildly, glancing at her reflection in the mirror. “Arthur looked a little like he wanted to vomit when he checked on me a while ago, but he hasn’t slept in days so I put it down to that. Do I really look awful?”

“You can’t tell?” Merlin enquires, and he knows he should stop hanging around by the door but he can’t bring himself to walk any closer.

“I’ve seen myself look worse,” Morgana shrugs.

Merlin frowns. “ _When_?”

Morgana’s lips curl, just slightly. “Tomorrow.”

Oh. _Oh_. Merlin steels himself and hazards a step closer, and then another one. Right now, Morgana doesn’t look anything like the woman who befriended him and whisked him off for coffee and cake barely two months ago. Then, she was regal; now, she’s just rigid.

“You should sit down,” Morgana tells him, standing up and indicating her empty chair. Merlin doesn’t particularly want to, but he obediently walks across to her and pulls the chair away from the table so he can sit on it. Morgana smiles at him, and then she sways on her feet, fingers curling into her palms, eyes focussing on something far away. It takes ten seconds for her to come back to herself; Merlin counts each one, nausea rising in his throat.

“You’re really _not_ fine, are you?” he asks, when she blinks rapidly and comes back into herself.

“I’m not,” Morgana agrees, with a wan smile. “But that’s not why I want to talk to you.”

She walks away from him, crossing to the window. She doesn’t seem to be able to look at him, which isn’t a good sign.

“Morgana,” Merlin says, “You’re scaring me.”

“You should be scared,” she responds flatly, and then shakes her head slightly. “Sorry. It’s awkward. Unlike all the other conversations I’ve had for the last two days, I don’t know what’s happening here.”

“So you really know _everything_ that’s going to happen?” Merlin asks, and can only imagine how that must make Morgana feel.

“Every last second,” Morgana replies. “Except for the parts involving you.” She turns back to him, a smile that almost looks real curling her lips. “I don’t know why I don’t dream about you, but really, Merlin, thank you so much. You’ve made me realise things about my life I never noticed before you came along.”

The way she’s talking doesn’t in any way reassure Merlin. “Please,” he says, “You need to tell me what’s going on here.”

“I wasn’t sure what to do,” Morgana says, and she sounds half manic and like her control is skidding away from her. “I wasn’t sure whether to say anything or not, and then I thought, well, if it was me _I’d_ want to know, and, well, I _do_ know, but anyway. I wasn’t going to tell you, and then I _had_ to.”

“You’re not making any sense,” Merlin says, and hears desperation in his tone.

“No.” Morgana sighs, seemingly trying to collect her thoughts. “Merlin, when I was at the height of my madness, when Edwin’s drug was at its worst, when I was lying in the hall bleeding and honestly thinking it was the end, when the future was overwhelming me and I couldn’t breathe… I saw you. I had a vision about you.”

Merlin does not have a good feeling about this. His stomach clenches and his breath catches hard in his chest. He can’t say a word, but that’s ok because Morgana sweeps back over to him and then, entirely unexpectedly, drops to her knees in front of him, looking up gravely. Her eyes are wide and mad and earnest and frightened and her expression is so unlike anything he’s seen on her face before that Merlin feels the first trace of genuine panic slide through him.

“Merlin,” Morgana says, loudly and clearly, “I’m so sorry. But tomorrow, you’re going to die.”

The room spins around him; Merlin starts breathing again, but far too fast, terror rising and closing over his eyes. His chest hurts as though someone is stabbing him repeatedly, rational thought escapes, his heart hammers against his ribs, and he realises he’s having a panic attack. 

Morgana is still speaking. “I thought you should know. Parts of the future are still fluid… I think, but this isn’t. And I’m sorry. I’m _so_ sorry. But I’ve never been more certain of anything than I am of this.”

Merlin is trembling, fear swooping repeatedly through the length of his body. His thoughts are skittering around in circles, unable to process what Morgana’s said, because the idea of him actually ceasing to _exist_ seems entirely impossible, implausible, ridiculous. He can’t make a sound, can’t say a word, his hands are clenching and unclenching entirely of their own accord and he sways on the chair, feeling as though he could fly into a thousand pieces because this is too much, too _fucking_ much.

“It’s going to be ok,” Morgana murmurs, and for a moment she sounds like her old self. She reaches forward, cold hands closing around his wrists, still knelt in front of him. She squeezes him, hard and certain, and he tries to focus. “You’re going to die, but you’re going to destroy Nimueh first. She won’t be able to hurt anyone else. Gwen will be safe, your mother will be _safe_.”

Merlin focuses on her warm, certain words, and his breathing begins to even out.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” Morgana tells him, “But I thought you had the right to know. I thought it was _important_.”

Merlin twists his hands so he can grasp Morgana’s wrists in return, holding her too tight though she doesn’t mention it.

“How?” he asks quietly.

“I don’t know,” Morgana admits. “I’ve only seen you _die_ , and only once. But it was quick and it was painless and… I’m so _sorry_.”

“Stop apologising,” Merlin orders, and his voice quivers but holds. “I’m glad you told me. I’m glad I know.”

He can feel the panic receding to be replaced by a sort of low-level nausea that will, presumably, remain with him for the rest of his life. Oh fucking _God_.

“It’s up to you,” Morgana says quietly, “But I don’t think you should tell the others.”

Merlin laughs hollowly. “Oh, right, because I was planning on strolling into the kitchen and going: ‘hey, Gwen, nice apple pie; by the way, I’ve always loved you and when I’m killed tomorrow can you keep an eye on my mum?’” He sighs. “Well, it might be good for another pity fuck from your brother, anyway.”

Morgana sighs. “That wouldn’t be sensible,” she says.

Merlin does not really _feel_ sensible right now, not even a little bit, but he can sort of see Morgana’s point.

“What if, by telling me, you’ve changed the future?” he asks. It’s a long shot, but it would be nice. 

Morgana’s grip tightens, nails digging into his wrists. “I told you, I’m _certain_ ,” she says.

“Right,” Merlin sighs, nodding.

They just sit there for a while, breathing, and slowly Merlin can feel himself calming down, resigning himself to his fate. Oh, he’s angry and upset about it, but if he really is trapped onto this course and this really _is_ his last night alive then there’s no point in spending all the time resenting what’s coming. Finally, he loosens his grip on Morgana, and she obediently lets go of him.

“I love you, Merlin,” she tells him earnestly, and it feels far too much like _goodbye_ for any sort of comfort.

_I’m not dying until tomorrow_ gets lost on the way to his mouth and becomes: “I love you too, Morgana.”

She kneels up and he leans down and they embrace, hard and desperate, and Merlin feels tears pricking against his eyelids. He grits his teeth until they pass.

When he finally stands, his knees feel weak but he can support himself, and Morgana sits back down on her chair. Almost as soon as she sits, her body stiffens again and she stares, horrified and silent, at something Merlin can’t see. She’s never been able to see the future while _awake_ before, and Merlin knows that this can’t be good at _all_. It takes a little longer for her to come back this time, and he wonders what they’ll do when she’s gone too long and can’t get _back_.

“Don’t tell Arthur,” she mumbles, when she eventually focuses on Merlin. “Please. I don’t want to worry him.”

It’s a little late for that, Merlin reflects. “Apparently Lance has gone AWOL,” he says, “Arthur’s already fairly edgy.” A thought occurs to him, quick and sudden. “Did _you_ talk to Lance?”

Morgana nods. “I did.”

Merlin is gripped by a second wave of panic. “What did you tell him?”

Morgana smiles slightly; maybe she’s trying to calm him. It’s hard to tell; so much of her is unfamiliar now. “Just four words.”

_You’re going to die_ is four words, Merlin reflects. “What-”

Morgana meets his gaze. “ _You need a gun_.”

“Oh,” Merlin says. And then: “Oh bloody _fucking_ hell.”

^

“You should get some sleep,” Gwen says, as she’s loading the dishwasher. 

Arthur ignores her, tracing the grain of the kitchen table with his thumbnail. He’s eaten a little too much of Gwen’s amazingly good apple pie, and feels warm and full in a nauseous sort of way, and everything about him feels unsteady. This is probably because of sleep deprivation, but he _can’t_ rest. Not when things are so very close to shattering.

“Is it just me,” he begins, “Or is Merlin acting weird? Like, _really_ weird, weirder than normal.”

Gwen smiles slightly, but her eyes are solemn. Throughout the meal Merlin was quiet, picking at his apple pie before suddenly shovelling it down like he hadn’t eaten for days. He was monosyllabic, refusing to contribute to the conversation, and then threw his arms around Gwen entirely without warning and started apologising profusely for not being better company. Then he was far too chatty, in a manic sort of way, had second helpings of pie even though he clearly didn’t really want them, and then excused himself and wandered off towards the living room.

Arthur is beginning to worry that Merlin is not just quirky in a simultaneously endearing and irritating way, but possibly _actually insane_.

“He was acting strangely,” Gwen agrees. “But it’s been a long day and things are difficult for all of us, so…”

Arthur nods. “Right.”

Gwen offers him a feeble smile. “I’m going to bed,” she tells him. 

Arthur hears the unspoken _I can’t handle being around people any more_ beneath her words, and gives her a soft smile.

“Goodnight,” he says. “And… thanks for tonight. You know.”

Gwen flushes, just slightly, and it amuses Arthur underneath all the clogging layers of despair and anxiety.

“Goodnight,” she replies, and hurries from the room.

Arthur stays sitting at the kitchen table for a while longer, increasingly morbid thoughts chasing each other through his head. Normally, when he feels like this, he goes to see Morgana or calls up Lance; but Lance’s phone is off and Morgana is _not_ his sister any more. It’s not something Arthur feels he can say aloud to anyone, but it’s perfectly true, and they both know it. The Morgana Le Fay who woke up from Edwin’s drug is changed too much, has lost too much of what made her _her_. Arthur loves her, but she’s not the girl he’s known for the last thirteen years, and that knowledge stings.

In the end, he leaves the kitchen, but can’t face going to check on Morgana. He can’t look at her in this state any more; it makes something tighten painfully in his chest, and he may have cried out everything in him in front of Lance in the early hours of this morning, but it’s not something he’s going to make a habit out of.

Merlin is curled up defensively on the sofa, flicking aimlessly through their Inadvisable Elephant Coffee Table Book. Arthur is bemused to note that the pictures are _moving_ ; Merlin may not be aware that he’s doing it, but the elephants are definitely walking across the page.

Arthur wavers in the doorway for a moment, makes a decision, and walks across to join Merlin. He carefully tugs the book from Merlin’s hands, closes it, and puts it on the coffee table.

“You’re not ok,” he says bluntly.

Merlin gives him a sheepish sort of shrug, but doesn’t say anything. He can’t meet Arthur’s eyes.

“I’m not Will,” Arthur adds, and doesn’t miss the way Merlin’s shoulders tighten at the mention of his friend’s name. He continues: “I haven’t known you since you were born, but if you need to _talk_ …”

“I don’t,” Merlin says, a little too quickly.

“Right,” Arthur murmurs, trying not to feel hurt at Merlin’s abrupt rejection. “Well, that’s fine too. I’ll just-”

Merlin catches his wrist as he stands up, eyes wide and blue and earnest and full of emotions Arthur can’t decipher.

“I’m being a bit of a dick tonight,” he says quietly. “But… if you can put up with that…”

His mouth moves a little but he can’t manage to form the word _stay_ ; Arthur hears it anyway and obediently sits down again.

They sit in a not _entirely_ uncomfortable silence for a while and Arthur tries desperately not to think about how his life is falling apart around his ears. His best friend has vanished, his sister is down the hall going quietly _mad_ , his flatmate is hiding in her room because she can’t cope any more, and Merlin… Merlin is huddled up, picking at the fraying sleeve of his hoodie and looking blank. This isn’t like Will’s funeral, when Merlin was weak and scared and unstable; this is different, but Arthur has no idea what it is or how to fix it.

“Lance will be back,” Merlin offers at last. “He hasn’t abandoned y- _us_.”

“I didn’t think that he had,” Arthur replies. He’s reasonably sure Gwen hasn’t told anyone about the mug he threw at the wall when he found Lance’s note on the kitchen table; he was angry for a moment, but he knows Lance would never hide from whatever the fuck this _is_. His friend is far too noble for that, which is annoying some of the time, but is on the whole a relief.

“You should tell him sometime,” Merlin mutters, still not looking at Arthur.

“Have I missed something?” Arthur asks. “I know I generally have no idea what you’re talking about, but-”

“Arthur, it has been clear to _everyone_ for, apparently, _forever_ that you’re madly in love with Lance,” Merlin sighs, as though Arthur is the obtuse and unobservant one here (which, for the record: _he really isn’t_ ). “You should tell him before this all kicks off.”

“Do you wish you’d told Will?” Arthur asks, before he can think it through; he remembers Merlin huddled on Gaius’ ridiculously steep staircase, Will’s photographed face beneath his fingers.

Merlin sighs. “There was nothing to _tell_ ,” he replies heavily. “I loved him, sure, but not really like _that_ , and I was never going to give him what he wanted.” He shoots Arthur an inscrutable look. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Arthur thinks about Lance, about the last week or so, about Merlin. He thinks he’s always loved Lance in a sort of desperate, unattainable way; before he ever really knew what he wanted. He’s not entirely sure yet that Merlin is _all_ that he wants, or is ever going to want – especially if Merlin keeps up the _let’s be friends_ shit – but he does know that he feels a mad sort of connection with the other man, and it’s different to the way that he feels about Lance.

It’s really all embarrassingly complicated while being simultaneously not complicated in any way at all.

“What do you want to talk about?” he asks.

Merlin’s smile is softer, more genuine. “Why do you and Morgana have so many stupid gigantic books about boring things?” he asks. “Really, it’s ludicrous.”

“Hey,” Arthur protests mildly, “I didn’t go to _your_ house and mock your belongings.”

“You would have done,” Merlin replies, “If it hadn’t been burned to a crisp.” He smirks a little. “Actually, while I was living here, Morgana asked you to come and wake me up, and you spent about ten minutes telling me all about my _wardrobe_ and how much it cost and how I should actually put my _stuff_ in there rather than all over the floor, like it was any _business_ of yours.”

“You really are horribly messy,” Arthur can’t help replying.

“It was still obnoxious and petty,” Merlin shrugs.

“You think I’m obnoxious and petty?” Arthur repeats. “ _Charming_.”

“You are, on occasion,” Merlin points out.

Arthur is about to retaliate, but breaks out into a yawn instead. It’s one of those yawns that makes his jaw crack and seems to go on forever. Merlin watches, smirking slightly.

“You should get some sleep,” he says.

“I wish everyone would _stop_ saying that,” Arthur mutters, in lieu of _I can’t sleep, ok, how can I sleep when we could die at any minute?_

“Morgana reckons that the shit hits the fan tomorrow,” Merlin tells him. “Don’t make me have to get Gwen to spike your tea or something.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Arthur grits, turning away, and is utterly stunned when Merlin grabs his shoulder and turns him back to face him.

“You are _not fine_ ,” Merlin says, with feeling. His fingers are digging into Arthur’s shoulder. “And you need to take better care of yourself.”

Arthur wonders what’s taken away Merlin’s brain-to-mouth filter – which never really functioned at full capacity in the first place – because he’s reasonably certain Merlin wouldn’t normally say half the things he’s said so far tonight.

“Worried about me?” he asks, and it comes out rather more arrogant than he means it to. Still, Merlin seems to understand, because his lips curl just a little.

Merlin doesn’t seem to know what to say; but Arthur can read it on his face anyway. He doesn’t think Merlin’s ever looked at him like that before; naked concern and a tangle of other emotions, none of which are pity or desperation, which makes a nice change.

Their knees are crushed together and Merlin is still holding his shoulder far too hard.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and half of it’s a warning.

“Arthur,” Merlin responds softly, and he doesn’t look away.

It’s almost too easy to lean forward and kiss Merlin and that’s exactly what Arthur does; he lets the weight of his body push Merlin back into the sofa cushions and when Merlin gasps Arthur uses it as an opportunity to slide his tongue across Merlin’s lower lip and into his mouth. Merlin’s hand moves from his shoulder into Arthur’s hair, curling and clenching almost hard enough to hurt.

“ _You_ ,” Arthur breathes, “Merlin Emrys, are a fucking _liar_.”

Merlin smiles, one that actually looks real (and consequently a little bit _manic_ ). “I am?” he asks, looking amused.

“ _Yes_ ,” Arthur replies. “You said you wanted to be friends, but you _don’t_.”

Merlin doesn’t say anything, but pulls him into another kiss. Things are slower now, more considered; none of the frantic desperation like after Will’s funeral, which is probably just as well. Merlin’s kisses are lingering, smooth, thorough; as though he’s trying to memorise every inch of Arthur’s mouth so he won’t ever forget it. He tastes a little like apple pie but mostly like _Merlin_ and Arthur is unable to stop a twist of _need_ from uncurling in his stomach. His hand tightens a fraction where it’s resting on the sharp rise of Merlin’s hipbone, and Merlin responds with a skid of teeth against his lip. 

Arthur is just sliding a knee between Merlin’s thighs when the other man freezes, pushing at Arthur’s chest until he pulls away.

“We shouldn’t do this,” Merlin tells him, careful and clear, as though he’s trying to make it clear to himself as well as Arthur. “Really, we _shouldn’t_.”

Merlin was right about himself; he really _can_ be a bastard, and it’s on the tip of Arthur’s tongue to say something cruel and crushing like _fair enough, I won’t let you turn me into another Will_. But he doesn’t, because he knows what that would do to Merlin, and it would cut too deep and sting too long. 

“Fine,” he bites off, and is about to lever himself upright and move away with Merlin’s fingers curl over his shoulders again and his smile is slightly shy.

“I said _stop_ , I didn’t say _move_ ,” he tells Arthur quietly.

“Ah,” Arthur says. “ _Right_.” He frowns at Merlin. “You know, when this is over and done with and we’re not horribly dead, we’re going to _talk_.”

Merlin laughs; it sounds a little like he’s choking. “Ok,” he says. “I’d… I think I’d like that.”

He leans up and kisses Arthur again, and it’s so good that Arthur knows when he talks to Merlin he’s not going to take _no_ for an answer. When they pull apart, Merlin looks momentarily sad, before the expression is wiped so quickly off his face that Arthur can’t really be sure it was ever there in the first place. Merlin smiles at him, crooked and charming in a way, although he still looks like a _cretin_ , and gently but firmly presses the hand still entwined in Arthur’s hair until Arthur obediently rests his head on Merlin’s shoulder.

“For someone so horribly bony you’re weirdly comfortable,” he observes, bemused, as they both shift a little on the sofa so they don’t have elbows digging in anywhere.

Merlin laughs, a soft rumble that Arthur can feel through the length of him. “That was almost a compliment,” he observes, “You must be slipping.”

“You have bloody _awful_ hair,” Arthur says swiftly, “It physically _hurts_ me to look at it. And your ears are utterly ridiculous.”

He can _feel_ Merlin grinning against his hair. “And you fancy me anyway.”

“Now who’s being obnoxious?” Arthur demands. 

Merlin laughs again, and then sighs. “You realise that this is all just adrenalin and fear, don’t you?”

Arthur considers this. “Hmmm. I hope not,” he replies.

Merlin is stroking his fingers languidly through Arthur’s hair, and he would stop him because this is patently _way_ too close to cuddling for comfort, but instead he shuts his eyes and goes with it.

Before he knows it, he can feel his eyelids drooping, and he wants to tell Merlin that he’s not going to get him to sleep simply by snogging the life out of him and then _petting_ him, but when he opens his mouth it turns into a yawn and a moment after that he’s not really awake enough to argue.

^

Panic has left Merlin with a bone-deep weariness, and he ends up slipping in and out of consciousness in an uneasy doze. Every time he wakes up and fear clenches his stomach, though, he registers Arthur still sprawled against him, heavy and warm and impossibly comforting, and it sort of relaxes him enough to sleep.

It’s maybe not the _best_ possible way to spend the last night of his life, but it could definitely be worse. 

The rain is still streaking down the windowpanes when he eventually opens his eyes to the grey morning light. Arthur is still breathing against his shoulder, and Merlin feels proud of himself; both for actually managing to get Arthur to _sleep_ , and for being noble and grown-up and not seducing him, because since he’s going to die today that would _really_ have fucked Arthur up.

Gwen doesn’t even bat an eyelid when she opens the door and walks in on the two of them entangled on the sofa.

“You need to get up,” she tells them urgently, “It’s Morgana.”

The low-level nausea in Merlin’s stomach rises again. Arthur is awake and out the door in moments, and Merlin gets up and staggers after him; half his circulation seems to have been cut off. Gwen looks miserable and anxious.

“London’s flooded,” she tells Merlin. “It’s been raining so hard that drains are overflowing and some areas are already a foot underwater.”

Nimueh’s destruction really knows no bounds. Merlin grits his teeth and takes Gwen’s hand before they walk into Morgana’s room. She’s in bed, wearing a different dressing gown, and looking wan in the morning light. Arthur is sitting on the mattress beside her, expression carefully blank to try and hide his worry.

“I don’t have a lot of time,” she says calmly. “In seven minutes’ time, my visions are going to put me under for a few hours, and by the time I wake up it will be too late.”

Arthur frowns. “If Edwin’s got to you again-”

“He poisoned me twice,” Morgana cuts him off. “One drug to work immediately, one to work later.” Her smile is almost ugly. “He’s mad, but he’s clever.”

Arthur looks like he’s going to vomit. Gwen’s nails bite into Merlin’s hand.

“Morgana-” Arthur begins.

“I’m not the important thing here,” Morgana interrupts. “I’d like to be, but I’m not.” She reaches out, catches her brother’s arm. “You have to stop them today, or tomorrow they’ll be well on the way to taking the world.”

“I don’t understand,” Arthur says.

“Yes you do,” Morgana responds sharply. “It’s got to be today, or tomorrow they’ll kill the Prime Minister and the rest of the government and by the time Big Ben goes up in flames they’ll have control of the country.”

Merlin squeezes Gwen’s hand back; he can’t look at her. Morgana offers a ghastly smile, waving her hand towards her dressing table.

“I’ve drawn you a map,” she says. Gwen lets go of Merlin and goes to pick up the paper; sure enough, Morgana has written a specific set of instructions. “This is the place,” she explains. “Lance will meet you there. They’re not expecting you.”

Arthur looks between Gwen and Merlin and Morgana. “You’re sending us to our _deaths_ ,” he says savagely. Merlin digs his teeth into his lower lip, swallowing hard. 

“Not necessarily,” Morgana replies steadily. “Arthur, you know you have to do this, or none of us will be safe again.”

He nods, glancing at the clock on her bedside table. “You don’t have much time,” he says quietly.

Morgana shakes her head. “I don’t,” she agrees, though she doesn’t look all that sad about it. Her emotions seem to have oozed away, and Merlin hopes that when she eventually wakes she’ll be… _better_. If she wakes. If Edwin hasn’t… he swallows hard, and closes his eyes against the momentary sting of tears.

Arthur glances out the window. “It’s a fucking _awful_ day to die,” he observes.

Merlin forces a smile.

Morgana’s eyes flicker towards her clock. “I have faith in all of you,” she says, and her gaze locks on Merlin for a moment, heavy with things unsaid. “I know… I know you can get through this.”

It’s an anticlimax when Morgana falls; her eyes close and she sinks back against her pillows and her hand goes limp in Arthur’s grasp.

“Oh, God,” Merlin murmurs.

Arthur looks up and for a moment he looks overwhelmed. And then that look snaps off his face, to be replaced by sheer bloody-minded determination.

“Go and get ready,” he tells Merlin, “We leave here in twenty minutes.”

Merlin obediently runs off to brush his teeth and put on some clean jeans and the adrenalin rush is almost enough to make him forget to think about what’s coming. When he returns to Morgana’s room, he discovers she’s dreaming; vividly, words spilling out between her lips.

“ _Arthur_ ,” she breathes, “Arthur, they’re not what they look like. They _can’t_ hurt you.”

Arthur himself looks ashen and scared but he’ll never admit it. “Gwen,” he says firmly, “I need you to stay with Morgana. Look after her; if she gets really bad call Gaius. I’m not sure there’s anything he can do to help her; we’ll just have to let this run its course. But just in case.”

Gwen nods. “I will.”

She throws her arms around Merlin and Merlin hugs her back, not wanting to let go, not wanting to think that this is the last time he’ll see Gwen. They cling to each other for a long moment, before finally parting, and Merlin pretends not to see the way Gwen’s cheeks are shining.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says softly, because there’s no point in making it _worse_ , casts one more glance at Morgana, who is looking anguished, misery etched across her beautiful unconscious features, and follows Arthur from the room.

They don’t talk because there really is nothing to say; Arthur drives far too fast though the wet streets, water splashing beneath the wheels of the car, and Merlin reads Morgana’s incredibly detailed map and instructions and gives him directions as best he can. It feels surreal; how organised this whole thing is. Things like this don’t _happen_ in people’s lives. They happen in films, in comic books. But Merlin is has Freaky Abnormal Powers and so, apparently, his life gets to be Freaky and Abnormal too.

The rain on the car roof is almost loud enough to drown out his thoughts, but Merlin can still hear Morgana.

_Merlin, I’m so sorry, but tomorrow you’re going to die._

_You need a gun._

This isn’t normal, this isn’t right, this isn’t even _close_ to ok. He swallows hard against his nausea, and tells Arthur to take a right.

“Any idea where we’re going?” Arthur asks.

Merlin shrugs. “No.”

Eventually, Morgana’s instructions run out and Merlin assumes they’ve found the place. They’re on a hill, which is a relief because Merlin wasn’t sure he wanted to fight for his life in a foot of floodwater, and as far as he can tell from Morgana’s written description they’ve managed to find the right gigantic gothic church. The whole thing is almost hilariously melodramatic, though Merlin suspects he might be a little hysterical. Arthur leans across to the passenger seat and presses his mouth to Merlin’s; _for luck_ , he murmurs, and then he’s opening the door and stepping out into the onslaught of rain.

Merlin takes a deep, slow breath, and follows suit.

There’s no one around; everyone sensible is hiding in their homes away from the chronic flooding, and the rain is coming down so hard that it actually _hurts_ when it hits Merlin’s skin. He gasps from the cold, vision blurring, and stumbles after Arthur, who seems to be making a beeline for the church.

He finally sees what Arthur has already seen; Lance is standing on the steps, sheltering in the church doorway. He’s already soaked, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets.

“I take it this is the place!” Arthur yells over the wind. 

“Looks like it!” Lance calls back.

They join him under the meagre shelter. “No one’s here,” Arthur observes. “Could be a trap.”

“It’s not a trap,” Lance replies. “It just isn’t time yet.”

“You sound like Morgana,” Merlin tells him.

“How is she?” Lance asks urgently.

“Not good,” Arthur says tightly, and Lance seems to know not to keep asking.

“Do you have it?” Merlin asks instead.

Lance nods, pulling a gun from the pocket of his coat. Merlin has no way of knowing what kind of gun it is or if it’ll do the trick and he really doesn’t want to know how Lance got hold of it in the first place, and the fact they’ve got a gun between them doesn’t really make him feel any better.

“What the _fuck_?” Arthur demands.

Lance shrugs. “Morgana said I needed one,” he replies. “Who was I to argue?”

“You’re a _pacifist_ ,” Arthur points out, sounding a little desperate.

Lance grimaces but doesn’t reply, and when Merlin looks away he can see shapes moving resolutely through the rain. People, and as they get closer he recognises them. His stomach clenches and for a moment he feels so dizzy he can’t move, but the adrenalin kicks in again and he knows what he has to do.

“Emrys!” Edwin calls, damaged face twisted into a grotesque smile. “How lovely to see you!” His gaze turns to Arthur and Lance. “Oh, and I see you brought some pets with you.”

Edwin isn’t alone; Merlin can see Nimueh, somehow completely dry in spite of the rain pelting down around her, and Valiant, and a man wearing an incongruous white cloak, the hood pulled over his face, hiding him from view. Four against three wouldn’t be _terrible_ odds, if it weren’t for the whole _superpowers_ thing.

“No Morgana,” Edwin notes, tone still carefully polite. “Is she unwell, I wonder?”

Nimueh laughs, soft and mad. Out of the corner of his eye, Merlin sees Lance put a warning hand on Arthur’s arm.

“You know why we’re here,” Merlin says, and his voice sounds far braver than he feels.

“To die, I presume,” Edwin shrugs. “You still have time to surrender.” He looks directly at Arthur. “I could give you the antidote to save your sister.”

For the first time, Merlin really registers that there’s a good chance Morgana won’t wake up again; that she’s been hiding the full extent of her illness from them. He grits his teeth.

“You know,” Arthur says, “I’m really going to _enjoy_ killing you.”

Edwin rolls his eyes. “Emrys,” he says, “A word?”

Merlin walks down the steps. He hears Arthur say his name, and yes, they’re both fully aware that this is a trap, but Merlin has a slightly better chance of surviving this than Arthur has, so he ignores him and walks up to Edwin.

“I’m here,” he says calmly. “I’m _here_.”

Edwin smiles, and Merlin pretends not to notice the others backing away slightly. He knows Edwin doesn’t kill him; Morgana promised him, and he suddenly understands the way she’s been feeling. Knowing the future makes the present seem so very small, so completely immaterial.

Merlin raises his chin, and smiles.

“You could have been _great_ ,” Edwin tells him calmly, “Such _potential_ , Emrys.”

Merlin shrugs. “Go on then,” he says.

Edwin’s eyes glow slightly, just for a moment, and then the flames shoot from the palms of his hands and envelop Merlin completely.

^

“Merlin!” Arthur shouts his name, though he doesn’t know what good it will do, and hears Lance shout the same thing at the same time. He glances at his friend; sees the horror etched on his face too, and knows that there’s nothing he can do for Merlin right now. He’s just got to hope the other man can defend himself.

Nimueh turns and leaves, walking away from the entrance to the church. Arthur tries to see where she’s going, running down the steps, but she’s lost in the haze of fog and rain, and the heat from Edwin’s fire vaporises the water near him immediately. Arthur can feel waves of heat almost burning his face and hands, and can only hope that Merlin is still alive somewhere in that ball of orange flame. He can’t panic for him, can’t think about him at all; his mind is numb, and blank, and he wonders if this is what Morgana has been seeing.

“Stay where you are,” he yells at Lance, turning, and therefore utterly misses the suckerpunch from Valiant that comes from nowhere, sending Arthur sprawling backwards onto the ground.

“You’re Valiant The Twat I assume?” Arthur shouts over the rain, attempting a smile, and the man gives him a cruel smirk in return. He really looks like the kind of man who could pull Arthur apart with his bare hands but Arthur can feel furious adrenalin pumping through him and he thinks he can take him anyway. Arthur pushes himself to his feet; Valiant’s got the brute force, but hopefully Arthur’s got speed on his side. He ducks Valiant’s second attempt at a punch, backing away from Edwin and his flames as much as he can because getting accidentally incinerated is the _last_ thing he wants right now, and tries desperately to remember what Morgana said Valiant’s power was.

His question is answered a moment later as Valiant stares up at the carvings on the church wall, and his thick fingers flex. Arthur watches in amazement and horror as two stone snakes start twitching and, a moment later, become real snakes. The snakes slither swiftly down the wall and Arthur backs away, quelling urgent panic, because he knows it’s stupid and irrational but he has _never liked_ snakes. Valiant tips his head to one side and the snakes slither across the wet pavement towards him, and Arthur can’t stop himself from turning and running.

^

The flames are so bright they’re starting to hurt Merlin’s eyes, and it’s taking all the power he has to hold them at bay. Edwin just keeps pushing the fire at the mental wall Merlin has formed and he can only force the flames back so far. He can just glimpse Edwin on the other side of the fire, and he’s laughing. The fire keeps getting hotter and hotter, turning blue and Merlin can feel the heat singing his face and hair. As he backs away, trying to get a little distance so he won’t be suffocated, he can see the pavement is scorched and some of the bricks are starting to crack.

He can’t see Arthur or Lance anywhere; Nimueh seems to have vanished, and the man in the white cloak is merely standing to one side, watching. Merlin has never seen this man and never heard Morgana talk about him, which is worrying, but he pays for his momentary distraction as Edwin manages to push the flames a little closer to him. Merlin tries to push them back with all the power he can summon within him, but he’s beginning to realise that Edwin really is _much_ stronger than him, and sooner or later Merlin’s going to crack and the fire will break through close enough to _really_ hurt him.

Through the smoke, Merlin sees Lance finally move from the steps, running around the side of the church and out of Merlin’s line of vision. He grits his teeth, hoping that the other two men can take care of themselves, and takes a deep breath that burns his lungs from the overwhelming heat surrounding him.

“Edwin!” he shouts.

^

Valiant seems to be getting a kick out of watching Arthur’s fear when faced with the snakes, which move faster than normal snakes seem to, and are coming after him with clear intent, their eyes narrowed malevolently. Arthur tries to work out if they’re poisonous or if they’ll surround him and crush him, and he’s got no chance of subduing Valiant if he’s being distracted by the snakes.

Abandoning all sense of rationality, Arthur starts running faster, splashing through puddles, hearing Valiant laughing behind him.

“Arthur, move!” Lance’s voice; and he dives to the left, hearing what sounds like a gunshot behind him. It echoes deafeningly off the stone wall beside him. He turns, and sees that one of the snakes seems to have exploded; Lance is holding his gun with calm certainty, and the laughter has gone from Valiant’s face. He’s advancing on Lance, who swiftly kills the other snake, and Arthur turns and runs back towards the two men. He honestly doesn’t know if Lance will be able to kill someone at point blank range with a gun, and he wants to get back there before that has to become a real possibility.

Arthur tackles Valiant bodily, pushing him away from Lance. They land hard on the wet pavement, and Arthur really hopes the crunch he hears is something really fucking _important_.

“Help Merlin!” he shouts in Lance’s direction, in the moment he has before Valiant moves enough to punch Arthur full in the face. His head snaps back and he tastes blood on his teeth, feeling it streaming down his chin. He swears in a spray of blood, hoping Valiant hasn’t managed to break his nose, refusing to move away. Arthur uses as much strength as he can muster to crack Valiant’s head against the pavement. Blood mingles with the rainwater but Arthur doesn’t even have a moment to congratulate himself; Valiant reaches up and his hands close around Arthur’s throat.

Valiant’s grip is unbreakable; Arthur claws frantically at his fingers, spots appearing in front of his vision because he _can’t fucking breathe_. He has no idea where Lance is and Merlin is kind of preoccupied and the blood gushing from his nose is filling his open mouth as he chokes.

But he thinks of Morgana; not Morgana as she is now, but as she _was_ ; reclining on their sofa and laughing about Valiant. Arthur feels a burst of anger and pain in his chest, and it gives him the strength to pry Valiant’s fingers from his neck, bending one until it snaps. Valiant shouts in agony and Arthur quickly gets up, trying to use the precious seconds before Valiant gets up to recover. His breath comes in harsh pants as he backs away. Arthur presses the sleeve of his coat against his bloody nose and it comes back savagely stained.

By the church wall, the man has pushed back his white hood. He’s old, Arthur realises; an inscrutable expression on his lined face. Arthur opens his mouth, not sure what he’s going to say, when the old man starts speaking. The words that fall from his mouth sound like nonsense, but then the air is thick with the sound of… hooves? 

“Oh, no fucking _way_ ,” Arthur breathes, backing up a step because Valiant has finally pushed himself to his feet, a smile that’s nothing short of _brutal_ on his face. 

There are white shapes now; dozens of them running down the road. No, not running; _galloping_. They look like horses, only they’re _not_ , and Arthur really wants everyone to stop for a minute so he can ask _what the fuck is going on_ , but Valiant is advancing on him, cruel and determined and Arthur wonders how the hell he thought he could ever defeat him.

“Come on then!” he shouts, and stops backing away. “You bastard, come _on_!”

Valiant doesn’t walk up to Arthur and break is neck, as he was half-expecting; instead, he reaches towards the church, towards a complicated-looking carving on the wall.

One of the swords, being wielded by what looks like a _seriously_ pissed-off angel of some description, turns sharp and silver and deadly-looking.

“Oh,” Arthur mutters between gritted teeth, “Oh _fuck_.”

^

“This doesn’t have to happen!” Merlin shouts desperately. He’s choking on the black smoke rolling off Edwin’s flames, eyes tearing, the top layer of his skin starting to peel.

“Emrys, you really haven’t been paying attention, have you?” Edwin’s tone is still light and pleasant, as though they’re just having a conversation and he isn’t about to burn Merlin alive.

Lance runs back into Merlin’s line of sight again, an eerie resolute look on his face. Merlin has never seen him look like this before, never, and sees Lance’s jaw clench as he raises the gun, aiming squarely for the back of Edwin’s head. Without even looking, Edwin reaches behind him, flames pouring from his fingers, heat strong enough to melt bullets. Lance staggers back but doesn’t lower the gun, and Merlin forces himself to pay attention to Edwin and _only_ Edwin lest he give anything away.

“You’re a scientist,” Merlin says, and he’s aware he’s pleading. He knows what he’s got to do and he’s almost certain that he _can_ do it, but this isn’t like Sophia. When he killed her, it was instinct and blind panic and largely an accident and it won’t be any of those things now. Now, it’s kill or be killed and the idea makes him sick to his _stomach_. “You’ve got a brilliant mind, Edwin. You could… you could stop this.”

Edwin laughs, showing too many teeth. “Knowledge without power is _nothing_ , Emrys,” he spits, “Nothing at all. You’ll learn that.”

Merlin catches Lance’s eye behind Edwin and hopes to God that they’re at least vaguely on the same page, before letting his guard drop, just a little. The flames skid forward, burning the palms of Merlin’s hands, and Edwin is so distracted by this unexpected victory that he doesn’t manage to defend himself against the shot Lance fires. It passes straight through Edwin’s shoulder, blood blossoming across his shirt, and Edwin cries out in pain.

Trying not to think about what he’s doing, Merlin grits his teeth and _shoves_ with everything he has. The flames, no longer being held as strongly by Edwin, quickly surround their master. They’re still bands of blue-white flame, designed to incinerate Merlin on the spot, and that’s exactly what they do to Edwin. He doesn’t even have time to scream; in seconds there’s nothing but a black scorch mark on the pavement, the rain finally putting out the magical fire.

Lance still has his arm raised, hand clenched around his gun, mouth open in something resembling shock. Merlin backs away from the cracked and burned ground, legs trembling violently, and can’t stop himself from throwing up.

Finally raising his head, he sees that Lance has finally managed to lower the gun. But his attention is quickly caught by shapes coming around the side of the church; huge white shapes that look weirdly like…

Oh. _Oh._

^

If Valiant gets his hands on a long, pointed weapon Arthur is fully aware that he’ll be run through any minute. The sword is still in the wall, and as Valiant reaches for it Arthur runs at him, pushing him backwards. Valiant falls from the momentum, and Arthur uses the time to reach up and _wrench_ the sword out of the stone. It feels weighty in his hand, not quite _I’m-actually-made-of-stone_ weighty, but heavy nonetheless. Arthur curls his fingers around the hilt, trying not to think about the fact that while he was _reasonably_ good at fencing at school, that was with foils, not swords, and padded protective clothing, and Lance used to kick his arse _all the time_.

Valiant pushes himself to his feet, and Arthur can see that another sword is already coming into existence on the wall. He desperately wants to run away, but he’s here and he’s already injured and if Arthur is about to be killed then he’s damn well taking Valiant with him. He wipes the rain from his eyes, licks his bloody lips, and widens his stance, steadying himself.

“Scared?” Valiant asks, tugging his own weapon from the wall.

“Of you?” Arthur smirks as broad as he dares; his face has gone numb, which is probably not a good thing. “ _Never_.”

Valiant’s first swing is a test as much as anything else; Arthur feels a sudden rush of hope because maybe, just _maybe_ , Valiant isn’t that much better with a sword than him after all. He jumps back easily, and then it’s his turn to lunge forward. Valiant deflects his blade with a clash, and Arthur is hit by how ridiculously fucking _surreal_ this is; he’s here in the middle of a storm having a swordfight with a psychopath, and he’s pretty certain that he has a meeting _right now_ with the men from Kanen Agency. His father is going to be furious, he thinks randomly, if Arthur doesn’t actually die here.

Valiant strikes a little too close to Arthur’s arm; Arthur thinks by rights he should at least be bleeding, but apparently his spatial awareness is randomly shot because he feels no pain and when he glances there’s no wound. Valiant frowns, lunging towards him again, and Arthur steps back swiftly, catching Valiant’s ribs on the left hand side with his blade. He realises just how _sharp_ these swords are, and swallows a jolt of anxiety. Valiant shouts in pain, clapping a hand to his side; red blood oozes between his fingers, and there’s sheer madness in his eyes. He’s angry now, so angry that Arthur thinks he can work it to his advantage.

“COME ON!” he yells, opening his arms wide, inviting Valiant to hurt him, and Valiant is so furious and insane now that he doesn’t notice how easy Arthur’s making it. He runs towards him, and Arthur grits his teeth and side-steps at the last moment, using Valiant’s speed to catch him and turn him, unhesitatingly driving his blade _up_ into Valiant’s chest and pushing until the hilt is resting against Valiant’s shirt and hot blood is spilling over Arthur’s hands.

The groaning sound Valiant makes as his legs give way will stay with Arthur forever.

“Oh God,” Arthur murmurs; he can’t even muster up feelings of triumph, just sickness, and he pulls the blade free with difficulty. Valiant falls face-first to the ground, blood pouring away from his body in thick, crimson streaks, mingling with the streams of rainwater. Arthur doesn’t let go of the stained sword, backing away, trying to get his mind to process thoughts properly because he knows this isn’t over and he needs to find out who’s still alive and who’s doing what and what the hell is going on now.

Sword still held tight in his hand, he forces his numb legs into moving, running back towards the entrance of the church. He can’t see fire any more, there’s no smoke, but he doesn’t know if this means that Edwin has been stopped or if he’s merely done what he wanted. Rounding the corner, Arthur sees that the square in front of the church is full of… _unicorns_. Huge white horses with horns on their heads and pure white manes and the effect is beautiful but for the cruelty in their eyes. 

The old man is standing with his hand resting on the neck of one of them, just waiting.

Arthur is pleased to see both Merlin and Lance are still alive, looking shell-shocked and singed, but still intact.

“Hi,” he calls.

“Hi,” Merlin says weakly. “Um, I think _Harry Potter_ has a lot to answer for.”

^

The unicorns are interesting, Merlin decides, but not necessarily _nice_. He’s never seen animals like this; there’s murder in their eyes and the only man who summoned them has such a blank expression on his face that it makes him kind of nervous. He knows it’s his destiny to be murdered by Nimueh and everything, but he doesn’t want to be trampled by Evil Shiny Unicorns before his inevitable doom.

“Valiant?” he manages.

“Dead,” Arthur replies, waving back the way he’s come. “Edwin?”

“Dead,” Merlin echoes. “Nimueh?”

“No idea,” Arthur shrugs. He turns to the old man, and calls: “And who are you?”

Merlin squashes the ridiculous urge to laugh, and the old man calls back: “Anhora.”

Merlin is about to ask what’s wrong with calling people things like _Keith_ and _Lucy_ , and why everyone with magic powers has had a stupid weird name, before remembering that _his_ name is Merlin and he’s therefore in no position to judge. 

“Ok,” Arthur says slowly, and he’s holding a really big sword, stained red with blood. At least there’s nothing left of Edwin; Merlin suspects that whatever’s left of Valiant is a complete fucking _mess_. “Ok, so-”

Whatever he’s about to say is interrupted by the sound of a car approaching. Merlin freezes and exchanges a panicked look with Lance; this will look really, _really_ incriminating if anyone else sees them. A square full of unicorns, burn marks everywhere, Arthur smothered in blood and Merlin’s palms blistered from the flames. But as he turns to look, he recognises the person driving the car.

“Oh God,” Arthur says; clearly he does too.

Gwen parks the car and practically runs around to open the passenger door; she helps Morgana get out. Morgana is looking paler than ever, and she was _right_ when she told Merlin last night that she’d look worse today; it’s impossible for him to work out how she’s even still _standing_. Gwen’s jaw is clenched, resolute, holding tightly to Morgana.

“What the hell are you doing?” Arthur shouts, ignoring the unicorns and Anhora and all the impending danger and striding over to the two women. “I told you to _look after_ her.”

Gwen glares at him, eyes blazing, fear making her angry. “I couldn’t _stop_ her,” she shouts back, “And she would never have made it here alone.”

“I need to be here,” Morgana insists unsteadily.

Merlin looks away from them and finally sees Nimueh. She’s standing on the other side of the church, her arms folded firmly across her chest, a smirk playing around her lips. She is still resolutely dry, looking more inhuman than ever. Merlin glances back, at the others who are all focused on Morgana, and then turns back to Nimueh. She smiles wider, crooks her finger, and beckons him toward her.

Maybe, he could just _not go_. He could stay here… and _what_ , exactly? Nimueh is sneaky and fast, and she won’t be found if she doesn’t want to be, and she doesn’t need the others around her to take the world anyway. A woman who can kill people from a distance just because she wills it so is dangerous enough on her own. And if he doesn’t go now and do what he can then he knows that Nimueh will never stop. Not _ever_ stop.

He smiles in a resigned sort of way, and obediently follows her.

^

Movement out of the corner of Arthur’s eye makes him turn from Morgana’s gaunt face. Merlin is walking, like one possessed, towards Nimueh. The smirk on her face is cruel and calculated and Arthur feels his body turn cold.

“Merlin!” he shouts. The other man doesn’t turn.

“It’s all right,” Morgana murmurs, voice breaking. Arthur ignores her.

“MERLIN!” he shouts over the pouring rain, the sword falling from his numb fingers and clattering loudly on the ground. Merlin still doesn’t hear him, following Nimueh out of sight.

Arthur has a bad feeling about this, a really _bad_ one, and is about to try and follow when Anhora apparently decides that enough is _enough_ because he shouts something incomprehensible and Arthur turns to find one of the unicorns is running towards him.

It would be ludicrous if it wasn’t so completely _fucking scary_ , and Arthur has no time to move, no time to do anything. And then he remembers what Morgana said while she was asleep; _they’re not what they look like_.

“You’d better be right about this!” he yells to the sky, tipping his head back and throwing his arms out and the unicorn bows its head. It’s amazing how unicorns look kind of adorable before you realise they’ve got a foot-long spike on their skulls, and Arthur jolts as the unicorn hits him dead on.

…It runs straight through him, as though one of them is entirely insubstantial. It’s an extremely _weird_ feeling and Arthur groans, though not entirely in pain. 

“You conjure up hallucinogenic fucking unicorns?” he yells at Anhora, and then registers the look of horror on the old man’s face. He clearly didn’t expect to see this happen. The words _worst. power. ever._ die on his lips.

“Arthur?” Lance says uncertainly, stepping forward. The unicorn nearest him turns and Lance backs away automatically, but it still manages to catch his arm with its horn. He shouts aloud in pain and Arthur can see that it’s _hurt him_. Morgana screams and Arthur can’t work out what the hell is going on here; but he does know that he doesn’t want to kill Anhora, who looks like he could be somebody’s grandfather but for the whole _murderous potentially imaginary unicorns_ thing, and Merlin has gone fuck knows where with Nimueh, and this has _got to stop_.

“Anhora,” he shouts, “You don’t want to do this. You know you don’t.” He risks a step or two closer; the unicorns shuffle but they’re still moving right through him and sometime, when this shit is over and done with, he’ll wonder why _he’s_ so special. Still, that’s not something to worry about right now. “Nimueh and the others… they’re psychopaths. I don’t think _you’re_ a psychopath.”

Anhora considers him for a long time, and Arthur does his best to look earnest while smothered in his own blood and utterly drenched from the rain that won’t stop falling.

“All right,” Anhora concedes, and Arthur thinks maybe it’s _too easy_ , but this is the weirdest of days and maybe all the guy needed was someone to tell him that there _are_ other options. He mutters a few words and all the unicorns vanish, leaving the space wide open and empty.

“Thanks,” Arthur says feebly, looking over to where Morgana is clinging to Gwen and Lance is still clutching his bleeding arm. “I mean… really, thanks.”

Anhora holds out his hand, a thoughtful smile on his face. “Good luck,” he says.

Arthur shakes it, feeling confused and uncertain and a little anticlimactic. “You too,” he says, and watches the old man walk away.

He realises that he’s forgotten Merlin in all this, and hurries over to the entrance to the graveyard, where he last saw Merlin and Nimueh. But the air seems to have solidified, and he can’t pass through.

“Merlin, you bastard!” he shouts, because there’s no one else who could be doing this. Merlin is using his power to keep them all from following him, the stupid fucking martyr.

Morgana is stumbling towards him, Gwen and Lance half carrying her between them. As they get closer, Arthur realises that Gwen is actually crying; she must have realised what Merlin’s done too.

He refuses to give in though, hammering at thin air like he’s banging on a door, shouting expletives and Merlin’s name and howls of anger, blood still spilling down his face. He’s soaked to the skin and cold and scared and he is not going to let Merlin _kill himself_.

“We can’t,” Gwen hisses behind him, words spilling out between her desperate sobs. Morgana seems to be trying to say something, but the words don’t come out properly. Gwen swallows another sob, insisting: “Arthur, we can’t go after him.”

“We can’t abandon him!” Arthur shouts, smacking his hand against the air again.

“ _Arthur_ ,” Morgana finally manages, “Arthur, it’s _too late_.”

He’s about to ask her what she means when Morgana goes rigid in Gwen’s arms, staring at nothing. Gwen sighs, shifting to keep her upright, swallowing down her tears.

Arthur bows his head, trying to come up with a strategy; he has _no idea_ what to do now. No idea at _all_.

^

“Merlin,” Nimueh says softly, “We could have been brilliant. I don’t understand why you won’t see that.”

“I don’t kill people,” Merlin tells her, voice shaking. “I don’t fuck up people’s lives because I’m bored and power-hungry. I’m nothing like you.”

Nimueh pouts. “But you _should_ have been,” she insists.

Merlin feels anger override his fear. “You killed my friend,” he says, “You killed Will in front of me to prove a point. You let Edwin drive Morgana mad. You’re broken, and you’re cruel, and I thought I’d be scared when it came to this, but I’m not.”

Nimueh tips her head and smirks a little more. “Don’t be stupid, Merlin,” she tells him. “I can kill you faster than you can kill me.”

“I don’t care,” Merlin says.

“ _Liar_ ,” Nimueh replies. “Everyone says that they’re not scared, but they are. There’s things they can’t leave behind; what about your _delightful_ mother? Or Gwen, your sweet little terrified friend? Or _Arthur Pendragon_?” She takes a step closer to him; Merlin takes a step back. “Let me live,” she tells him. “Let me do this. The world has been the same for _too long_ ; aren’t you sick of hiding?”

“I was never sick of hiding,” Merlin tells her, “And all those people you’ve listed are the reason I need to stop you. Because I need them to be safe.”

“Selfless,” Nimueh tells him, and then she brings a wineglass out of nowhere. Merlin’s stomach clenches but he’s not afraid, not any more. He watches her raise it, and the rain – _her_ rain – splashes into it. He casts around for something to kill her with; something he can destroy her with, because Morgana _promised_ him that he’d kill Nimueh.

A roll of thunder rips through the sky and Merlin suddenly realises what he has to do. It’s more power than he’s ever used and he’s not even sure it’s _possible_ ; but he’s going to die anyway, so it doesn’t matter if he burns himself out.

He realises that Nimueh is so far gone that she doesn’t even realise that what she’s doing is fundamentally _wrong_ ; she’s a sociopath rather than a psychopath and he pities her in the moment before she raises the glass to her lips and takes a sip. Sealing his fate.

“Last chance,” she says.

Merlin shakes his head and raises his eyes to the sky. He grits his teeth and hopes he’s right about this, and when the next roll of thunder comes he _reaches_ with everything he has in his body and soul. The bolt of lightning descending from the sky changes direction, bending in the middle, and strikes Nimueh directly. Her eyes go wide and then she falls, the glass slipping from her fingers. Merlin tries helplessly to catch it, already knowing that it won’t work, and it smashes on the pavement.

He has a moment to think _I killed Nimueh!_ and then _nothing at all_ sweeps through his body, his knees crumpling, and as he hits the ground his last thought is _oh bloody he-_

^

Morgana crumbles in Gwen’s arms when she comes back to herself. She clings to her friend, trickles of blood coming out of her ears, breath coming in short gasps. Arthur can see that she’s dying, and beside him Lance pulls his mobile from his jeans, dialling 999. He’s glad he’s got a sensible friend because he honestly can’t think, broken by the sight of Morgana’s drawn face. Words are tumbling helplessly from her lips, but they make no sense, and Arthur swallows the burn in his throat because he can’t fall apart right now.

Morgana’s legs give way and Gwen starts crying again, carefully lowering her to the ground because she can’t hold her any more.

“I trust you,” Morgana says earnestly, staring up at Arthur with her eyes wide and desperate, “I trust when the time comes to do the right thing.”

Arthur is about to ask for clarification – does seeing the future mean she has to be cryptic all the time? – when Morgana goes limp, collapsing backwards. Gwen is kneeling over her in a moment, tilting Morgana’s head back and controlling her sobs to try and breathe for her.

“Ambulance is on its way,” Lance tells them, and above them the sky seems to split, a bolt of lightning that is too large and too bright and too close landing in the graveyard out of sight. Arthur turns and hits Merlin’s mental wall again, but a second later it seems to collapse. He turns back to Lance, who nods, silently saying that he’ll look after Morgana and Gwen, and Arthur turns away from them and _runs_.

He turns the corner and finds Merlin and Nimueh six feet apart from each other. There’s broken glass on the floor and Nimueh is lying face-down. Arthur is bemused and frightened to see that she’s dissolving into the rain in a way that’s entirely ungory; she’s just becoming one with the water again, and he supposes that’s sort of fitting. But he loses all interest in her when he takes note of Merlin; sprawled on the ground like a doll that’s been tossed aside.

“No,” he moans, “No, no, Merlin.”

Arthur drops to his knees beside him, rolling him onto his back. Merlin’s head lolls horribly but Arthur thinks he can feel a thready pulse, pressing his head to Merlin’s chest. Merlin takes a ragged, shallow breath that Arthur almost misses, and he’s _still alive_. He’s not conscious, but he’s _alive_ , and that’s the important thing.

Running solely on adrenalin and fear now, Arthur slides one arm under Merlin’s knees and the other around his back and hefts him into his arms. Merlin is slight and bony and not really all that heavy, his head resting against Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur carries him back towards the others, through the graveyard, listening to Merlin’s shallow, uneven breathing because it’s the only thing keeping him from collapsing right now.

An ambulance has arrived by the time Arthur gets back to the others, and he wonders what will happen when Valiant’s body is found. Still, he’s got more on his mind right now, and he can see Morgana being lifted into the ambulance, an oxygen mask fixed tight to her face.

“See, Merlin?” Arthur says softly, “It’s all going to be _fine_.”

It’s at this point that Merlin’s feeble breathing stutters and stops completely.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Merlin _isn’t_ dead (but isn’t quite alive either), Arthur is given a loophole and makes a difficult decision, and unexpected help lives on the Metropolitan Line.

_Haven’t had a dream in a long time  
See, the life I’ve had   
Can make a good man bad  
So, for once in my life  
Let me get what I want  
Lord knows, it would be the first time._  
\- The Smiths

When he was seven, Lance’s parents were mugged and stabbed in front of him.

It’s not something he talks about much, and it took Arthur four years to worm all the details out of him, but in any case he hasn’t set foot in a hospital since that night. On the rare occasions he’s got ill or hurt himself, Gaius has diagnosed and treated him in his giant, cluttered house. 

He looks sick, sitting hunched on a bed in casualty, staring down at his hands knotted in his lap. Arthur is sitting on the bed opposite him, staled adrenalin leaving him weak and quiet. Half an hour ago, he was shouting, swearing, name-dropping, threatening the company lawyers, everything he could think of. It didn’t work; he and Lance are down here waiting for stitches and bandages, and Morgana and Merlin are upstairs in intensive care. Gwen went with them, and Arthur knows he would have found out by now if either of them had _died_ , but anxiety and fear are making him nauseous. 

Arthur slides off his bed and goes to sit next to Lance. It’s been a shitty enough day without Lance having to deal with his fear of hospitals _on top_ of everything else, and if Arthur isn’t going to get upstairs until Gaius arrives and sorts all this out, he might as well try to help his friend.

“I think I’m currently suing about twelve different people,” he offers gently.

“That’s because you’re an obnoxious twat,” Lance responds, not looking up. He sighs, and finally turns to Arthur. “The nurse fancies you. And the doctor.”

The nurse is female, but the doctor isn’t. Arthur can’t stop a smirk flitting across his mouth.

“Even with my broken nose? You must be losing your touch, Lance, you’re the one that men, women and household objects usually lust after.”

Lance finally cracks a smile. “I hope your nose mends crooked,” he replies, reaching to smooth the end of the _deeply unattractive_ bandage thing that has been stuck over the bridge of Arthur’s nose with his thumb.

“You’re not supposed to be moving your arm until you get the stitches,” Arthur points out, pushing his hand away. He grimaces. “Does it hurt?”

“Like hell,” Lance replies. “Still, at least I can cross _being gored by a potentially imaginary unicorn_ off my list of Fucking Weird Life Experiences.”

“I stabbed a man to death with a sword,” Arthur responds, “That was… pretty fucking weird too, actually.”

Lance reaches with his good arm to catch one of Arthur’s hands. “You ok?” he asks softly.

It’s patently a ridiculous thing to ask, since they’re _in hospital_ with various injuries and there’s no guarantee that either Morgana or Merlin will live out the night, and if it were anyone else Arthur would point this out as offensively as possible, but he knows what Lance means.

“Yeah,” he sighs.

Lance lifts one of Arthur’s hands; his palm is stained brown with his blood and Valiant’s, and the back isn’t much better either.

“You’d think they’d bring you a wet wipe or something,” Lance observes, “Between your face and your hands, you look like an extra in a shitty zombie movie.”

“Well, you’re not looking exactly _dashing_ yourself,” Arthur mutters.

Before it can descend into desperate bickering as they search for any sort of _distraction_ , the curtain moves and the doctor comes in to give Lance his stitches. Lance stays gripping Arthur’s dirty hand as the doctor efficiently sews up the gash the unicorn gave him. The doctor doesn’t say anything but his eyes keep flickering towards Arthur and apparently Lance is _right_ , and it’s very nearly funny but Arthur can barely keep his eyes open. The doctor finally seems to notice their joined hands and his mouth tightens, but Arthur honestly can’t be bothered to correct his assumption. Can’t _bring_ himself to say that the man he loves is upstairs somewhere with his body hooked up to a machine.

Lance squeezes and Arthur squeezes back and forces himself to keep breathing.

Just as Lance’s arm has been bandaged to protect the sutures, the curtain is pulled aside.

“If you could excuse us, Owain?” It’s Gaius, looking calm and formidable and _tired_. Arthur’s stomach clenches.

“Of course.” Apparently-Owain dumps his gloves in a biohazard bin and hurries away.

“You’d both better come with me,” Gaius says, and he’s wearing his lab coat and looking sombre, just like he did when Arthur was twelve and got appendicitis (Morgana foresaw it and had him in hospital before he’d even started vomiting, but he _can’t_ remember that right now). 

“Are they…” Arthur can’t finish, the words shrivelling in his mouth.

“They’re both still alive,” Gaius says crisply, but doesn’t sound happy. “I’ve bent some rules for you; you’ll both be allowed to stay.”

They ride in the lift in a shocked sort of silence; forced to stay in casualty, Arthur and Lance had managed to make this sort of bubble, but it’s popped now and the world has once again got too _big_ and too _broken_.

Gwen is sitting on the floor in the corridor, looking exhausted and miserable, but she stands up as they walk towards her.

“They won’t let me in, Gaius,” she says, voice cracking.

“That won’t be a problem now, Guinevere,” he replies, wrapping his arm safe around her shoulders and leading the three of them into a room.

It’s like walking into Arthur’s _worst nightmare_. There are two beds, two sets of heart monitors and two rhythms of artificial breathing. He doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to _see_ , and he can’t choose which one he’s more afraid of; Merlin, looking tiny and insubstantial and covered in tubes, or Morgana, pale and gaunt, utterly still but for her eyes, which are roving frantically behind their lids. 

Gwen lets loose a soft, moaning sound, tears dripping down her cheeks, and moves across to Merlin’s bed. She reaches out, and then curls her hand back. Arthur finally notices that Merlin’s hands have been thickly bandaged; he remembers Edwin’s fire, and wonders how bad the burns are.

“It’s all right,” Gaius says gently, “You can’t hurt him.”

Gwen reaches out, fingers shaking, and gently strokes them down Merlin’s pale cheek. Arthur looks away, not wanting to see something so intensely _private_ , but can barely stand to look at Morgana. Her eyes won’t stop moving, seeing something invisible to the rest of them, trapped in a dream of the future that’s killing her. 

“Arthur,” Gaius says, breaking Arthur out of his thoughts, “I need you to come with me.” He smiles at Lance and Gwen. “You can both stay here; no one will ask you to leave.”

Arthur numbly follows Gaius out of the room and down the hall to an office identified as Gaius’. Gaius invites him to take a seat and he obediently does so, knotting his bloody hands in his lap. Gaius sits down opposite him, fixing Arthur with a piercing gaze.

“I know you’re tired, Arthur,” he says, “And I know you’re scared, but I have a lot to say and not much time to say it in, so please try and stay with me.”

He swallows, grits his teeth, and nods. “I’m listening, Gaius.”

Gaius hesitates, and then plunges in. “People’s abilities – they don’t come from their DNA,” he tells Arthur. “Morgana’s brain isn’t wired to see the future, Merlin doesn’t have something in his genetic code that allows him to levitate objects.” His lips curl slightly. “This isn’t a case of _science_ , but of _magic_.”

Arthur wants to be sceptical, but knows that this isn’t the time. Gaius knows what’s going on here far better than he does, and all he needs to do right now is follow.

“Magic is seen as a myth,” Gaius continues, “But it exists within the world. It creates coincidences, miracles, things that are seen as _acts of God_. The magic in the world is loose and uncontrollable; but over time people have evolved to cope with it. So, from time to time, people are born with the ability to access magic and control it. A genetic mutation that allows them to utilise magic; and this is where their gifts come from. Do you understand?”

Gaius is generating more questions than answers at this point in time, but Arthur knows better than to ask any of them right now. He just nods.

“The ways people access their magic differ,” Gaius says. “Some find they need the aid of an object – such as Nimueh and her wineglasses – or they need to speak or, like Morgana, they access magic subconsciously. People like Merlin, who can access their powers with merely a thought, are extremely rare. But I’m getting away from the point,” he adds.

Arthur curls his nails into his palms in an attempt to keep focused; he’s too worn out to do this.

“Right,” he murmurs.

“I worked with Edwin Muirden,” Gaius tells him calmly. “And I will give you all the details when you want them in the future, but the important thing right now is that you know we worked together around twenty years ago.”

Arthur can’t process this; can’t make this fit into his head. “You _helped_ -”

“I didn’t help him create the chemical he attacked Morgana with,” Gaius cuts him off. “I swear to you, Arthur. But when I was testing it, I discovered its properties. Edwin has created a drug that affects the DNA that controls magic use; Morgana’s body is accessing too much magic now. She is seeing the future and isn’t able to wake up from the visions the way she normally can. She’ll stay unconscious and keep seeing the future, and all its possibilities; until she’s seen her entire life.”

“Can’t you… sedate her?” Arthur asks desperately.

Gaius shakes his head. “The depth of coma we’d need to put Morgana in would cause too much damage,” he says. “In a matter of hours, Morgana will have seen her whole life; things that might happen, things that _will_ happen. She’ll see herself die and she’ll see what the world looks like after her death.”

“But she _can’t_ ,” Arthur says urgently. “I mean… she says she sort of knows how she’s going to die, but it’s not something she has _specifics_ for.”

“The physical effects of overusing her power are already becoming clear,” Gaius tells him, ignoring his hysterical exclamation. “Her body can’t cope; her brain could haemorrhage.”

Arthur swallows hard, gritting his teeth.

“I ran an MRI the moment I arrived,” Gaius says. “Morgana’s mind is completely lit up; she’s using areas of the brain that aren’t normally used. If she’s left in this state much longer…”

“Tell me what we’re looking at here,” Arthur snaps, needing Gaius to get to the point because he can’t let himself give way to panic. “Just tell me what could happen to Morgana.”

Gaius clears his throat, and suddenly loses the ability to look Arthur in the eye. “She could die. Either her brain will haemorrhage from the strain, or her brain will forget to tell her body to function because it’s so distracted.” He pauses for a moment, and then continues: “Morgana may not die. But her mind could be so damaged that she could end up either in a deep coma or a vegetative state.” He grimaces. “Or she sees her own death and the shape of the world without her, and she goes insane.”

Arthur tastes bile. “So you’re telling me the best possible scenario, the one I should be bloody _hoping_ for, is that my sister goes insane?”

Gaius can barely look at him, and he looks worn and exhausted. “At least then you can hope for periods of lucidity,” he suggests. He sighs, long and low and heavy. “ _Brief_ periods of lucidity.”

There’s silence in the office and Arthur can hear his jagged breathing, too loud in his ears. He can’t believe he’s hearing this; Gaius’ calm grave voice giving this harsh ultimatum.

“No,” he says aloud, “No, there must be something you can do.”

“Arthur-” Gaius begins, but Arthur doesn’t listen.

“You worked with _Edwin_ , you must have picked something up,” Arthur snarls, and part of him feels betrayed but he won’t deal with that until his sister isn’t _dying_. “You must be able to do something.”

Gaius sighs, and looks older than ever. “I’ve never tested it on anyone,” he says slowly, reluctantly. “It could kill her.”

“Because her options right now are so fucking safe,” Arthur snaps. “Tell me.”

“It’s a virus,” Gaius tells him, “And not one I’ve ever tested on anyone because I _can’t_. But it would bind to the DNA that allows Morgana to access her powers, and it would prevent her from using magic. Without her visions, she would not go mad and she should survive.” He finally meets Arthur’s eyes. “But she would lose her precognitive ability forever.”

Arthur is about to snap that this is a perfectly suitable exchange, if it could be made to work, but then thinks of Morgana; of his stepsister who has never known anything different. He remembers how disconcerted and afraid she was when she couldn’t see the future involving Merlin. He recalls the summer she got malaria and couldn’t see the future any more; she told Arthur that it was like losing a limb, losing an integral part of herself.

“Will she be able to cope with losing her ability?” Gaius asks.

Arthur wants to say _yes_ ; wants to say that she could adapt. And then wonders if Morgana would see it like that, if she’ll ever forgive him for this.

“And you say the virus could kill her?” he says, ignoring Gaius’ question because he can’t answer it right now.

“It’s unpredictable and untested,” Gaius tells him. “I can’t promise that it wouldn’t harm her.”

He doesn’t want this decision to be in his hands. He doesn’t want this to be up to him; he doesn’t want to be responsible for Morgana’s future. What does she want? He remembers Morgana in the rain; _I trust you when the time comes to do the right thing_.

“She knew this was going to happen,” he says aloud. “She fucking _knew_. She even _told_ me.”

Gaius frowns. “What does she want you to do?”

_The right thing_. But what _is_ the right thing? What does Morgana want; does she value her powers over her life, or can she learn to live in the present like everyone else?

Arthur shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he sighs. “ _I don’t know_.” He runs his hands through his hair. “Gaius, how long to I have to make this decision?”

“Around an hour,” Gaius replies promptly. “After that time, she may be too far gone for anything I give her.” He fixes Arthur with his firm stare. “But every minute we save will count in her favour.”

He doesn’t want this decision to be solely his; but he can’t ask Lance or Gwen, because they won’t know, and Merlin is dying himself and can’t tell Arthur one way or another.

_I trust you when the time comes to do the right thing._

“Take it,” he says, words falling from his mouth before he’s even thought them through. “Take her powers, try and save her.”

Gaius nods. “I’ll have her moved to a separate room.” When Arthur frowns, he adds: “The virus could prove to be infectious, and Merlin will need his abilities to try and save himself.”

“Can’t you do anything for _him_?” Arthur asks, stomach plunging at the memory of Merlin lying small and lost in the hospital bed.

“Merlin isn’t dead,” Gaius tells him, getting up. “Not any more, since the paramedics have restarted his heart. But he’s not alive either; Nimueh intended to kill him, but he must have killed her before she could concentrate on his death.” When Arthur gives him a quizzical look, he adds: “In order to tip the balance between life and death, Nimueh had to concentrate _completely_ on a person. Merlin is somewhere between life and death, and we must hope that he can pull his way back before he is lost.”

“Right,” Arthur murmurs, as they walk back towards Merlin and Morgana’s room. Something isn’t adding up in his head, and he’s too tired and anxious to think straight, so he tests his theory out loud. “You know about Nimueh’s powers,” he says slowly. “You know more than what we’ve told you. You worked with Edwin.” He stares at Gaius, realisation slowly dawning. “You _knew_ these people, Gaius, and you knew what they were capable of, and you didn’t raise a damn finger to stop them.”

“I didn’t know what they were planning,” Gaius insists.

“But you knew what they could do and you didn’t care,” Arthur snaps.

“What would you have had me do?” Gaius demands. “Inject them with my virus, see if it killed them or not?”

“Yes!” Arthur replies, and he’s too angry and he’s not thinking entirely logically but Gaius has _always been there_ in his life and even if none of this is his fault Arthur is desperately looking for someone to blame. “They were willing to murder hundreds, if not thousands of people, and you didn’t try and stop them in any way.”

“Arthur,” Gaius says urgently.

Arthur shakes his head. “No. You will treat Morgana and you will do what you can for Merlin and then you will not come near me, my family, or those I care about _ever again_ , do you understand me?”

“You’re overreacting,” Gaius tells him, and Arthur knows, and he doesn’t fucking care right now.

“ _Do you understand?_ ”

Gaius sighs, but nods. “I do.”

“Then do what you have to,” Arthur says, waving towards the door and at Morgana, lying twitching in her bed. He doesn’t add: _and God help you if she dies_.

^

Morgana’s eyes have finally stopped moving, though this isn’t necessarily a good sign. She still isn’t breathing on her own and she’s lying so completely _still_ that Arthur keeps thinking that she really is dead and they’re fighting a lost cause. As he watches his sister’s face, looking desperately for any signs of improvement, he keeps picturing her waking up, eyes wild, and asking him what the hell he thinks he’s _done_. Maybe he’s being selfish, maybe she doesn’t want to come back from this. Maybe she won’t be able to adjust to losing her precognition. Maybe-

The door slides open, and Lance comes in, precariously holding two paper cups and a packet of antiseptic wipes.

“Gwen’s with Merlin,” he says. “No change there; he’s not getting better but he isn’t getting worse.”

“I suppose that’s something,” Arthur remarks dully. “No change here either, except she isn’t dreaming any more.”

Lance sets the cups down on a table and walks across to Arthur, ripping the wipes open. “You need to be cleaned up,” he announces, “Because you look awful and it’s scary and worrying.”

Arthur takes a wipe from Lance and obediently begins scrubbing the crusted blood off his hands until they’re clean again. Lance sits down beside him and washes the blood from Arthur’s face; he flinches, partly from the pain in his nose, and partly from the memory of Merlin doing this only a few days ago. Finally, he must look better, because Lance wads up the used wipes and puts them in a bin, before passing Arthur a cup of tea and sitting down with him to wait.

“You made the right choice,” he promises softly. “I know she’ll see it that way.”

Arthur sips his tea; it’s too hot and burns his tongue. “Thanks, Lance,” he says, “But could you _not_?”

Lance smiles wanly, and they sit in silence for a while longer. Eventually, Lance’s watch beeps on his wrist.

“Midnight,” he observes. He turns to face Arthur, a strange little crooked grin on his face. “Happy twenty-fourth birthday.”

“Oh bloody hell,” Arthur says, and helpless laughter bubbles from his mouth. “I can’t believe I _forgot my own birthday_.”

“You’ve been a little preoccupied,” Lance tells him. 

“I have,” Arthur agrees. He offers Lance a hint of a smile. “My present had better be _fucking awesome_.”

“It will be,” Lance promises, and then sighs, looking away. “I called your father,” he says.

“What the hell?” Arthur demands. 

“I called your father,” Lance repeats. “He’s on his way.”

“Why would you do that?” Arthur asks. “He won’t-”

“Morgana could die, Arthur,” Lance points out calmly, “I wish that wasn’t the case but it _is_ and you know he’d want to be here.”

He has a point; he has a damn _good_ point.

“Hunith is on her way too,” Lance adds. “Things… things are bigger than _us_ now, Arthur.”

Arthur nods. “Right.”

Lance offers him a feeble smile. “Still, at least you look a little less like you’ve been eating brains in your spare time.”

“Good to know,” Arthur says, attempting a smile back.

They finish their tea in silence, watching Morgana’s heart monitor avidly, and Arthur tries not to feel guilty because she might _live_ because of him. Eventually, they hear a knock at the door, and Arthur turns to find his father standing there. 

Uther Pendragon looks more worn and anxious than Arthur has ever seen him, and he scarcely recognises his father. His stomach clenches, and beside him Lance gets to his feet, awkwardly clearing his throat.

“Hi, Mr Pendragon,” he says. He turns to Arthur. “I’m going back to Merlin and Gwen.” His fingers ghost on Arthur’s shoulder and then he hurries out. 

Uther has turned his attention to Morgana, lying as though dead in the bed. He looks sickened, distraught, mouth moving though no words come out.

“Gaius is treating her,” Arthur says, voice quivering, “She… she might be all right.”

His father fixes him with a penetrating look, the one that’s always made Arthur feel like his soul is being _given marks_ and somehow he’s not quite up to scratch. 

“Is this to do with her being able to see the future?” he asks quietly.

“She… she can’t see the future any more,” Arthur replies, and his voice breaks in the middle. Guilt and anxiety and terror are still thick within him and he pushes himself to his feet. “I can’t… father, I can’t…” And then, because this isn’t a normal situation and it’s his _fucking birthday_ and he’s so scared he can’t think straight, he finally says: “ _Dad_.”

He’s never called his father anything other than _father_ before, and Uther strides across the room and pulls his son into a hug, the kind of hug Arthur would have given _everything he owned_ to get when he was about eight and, if he’s honest with himself, he’s still unbearably grateful. He wraps his arms around Uther’s back, and just about manages not to cry.

When they pull apart, his father scrutinises his face. “Your nose is broken,” he says, sounding bemused.

Arthur summons up a feeble smile. “You should see the other guy.”

Uther smiles back. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“…No,” Arthur sighs at last. “No. It doesn’t matter any more. But Morgana is very ill, and she might die, and the treatment is experimental at best.”

Uther considers this, and nods at last. “So we’ll wait for her,” he says firmly. “We’ll wait for her to wake.”

His father has a business empire to run, and he won’t be able to stay long; perhaps not long _enough_ , but Arthur knows what the gesture means and is relieved not to be alone any more.

They sit in silence for the next few hours, while Morgana doesn’t dream and her heart rate stays even, and it’s almost enough.

When she starts choking, Arthur panics, but a doctor comes in and removes the tube from her throat and apparently she’s breathing on her own. Arthur knows that although this is a good sign it doesn’t mean _anything_ in the long run, and yet he can’t help the flood of relief rushing through him. Lance comes up every hour on the hour to check on Morgana and to relay the fact that Merlin hasn’t changed at all, and that Hunith has arrived and is resolutely _not_ having hysterics all over Gaius.

Just after six a.m Uther gets a call; apparently shares in the Kanen Agency are dropping in value and there’s some kind of financial crisis he has to go and deal with.

“You will call me _the moment_ anything changes,” he says; an order, and wishes Arthur a brusque _happy birthday_ before leaving the room. Arthur goes over to the window and opens up the blinds so the first hints of light can fill the room. It’s still raining outside; a little less heavily than yesterday, but it shows no sign of letting up. Maybe now Nimueh’s dead it’ll rain forever, though he hopes not.

He walks back over to the bed and sits on it, reaching for Morgana’s cold hand.

“ _Please_ , Morgana,” he says softly, “Please, give me _something_.”

It takes another ten minutes, but her fingers twitch against his. Arthur thinks he should probably go and get a doctor at this point – he should almost _definitely_ go and find Gaius, his personal feelings aside – but he doesn’t want to. This moment is for him and Morgana, and just for them.

“Come on,” he murmurs, reaching to smooth her messy hair away from her face. “Come on, Morgana, you can do this.”

She frowns a little, and slowly, groggily, begins to ease her way into consciousness. Arthur is holding his breath, aware that just because Morgana is waking up doesn’t mean that she isn’t brain-damaged or insane or still half-lost to the future. Her eyelids flicker, and finally her lips curl into a smile that’s almost bitter.

“It’s gone, isn’t it,” she says flatly. 

Arthur feels all the air rush out of his chest. “Yes,” he tells her.

“I can feel it,” she murmurs, still not opening her eyes. “I can feel where the future used to be. There’s just… empty space.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Arthur tells her. “You told me to do _the right thing_ ; do you have any idea how unhelpful that was?”

Her smile widens a little. “I do.”

It takes both of them to sit her upright, her eyes still shut, and Arthur pulls her into his arms, clinging tightly to her because for a few hours there he really thought he’d lost her.

“Oh God,” he murmurs into her hair.

Morgana relaxes into his arms, and then she shifts and stiffens. “Arthur,” she says urgently, “I can’t see.”

“I told you,” Arthur says, “Your powers had to be removed-”

“No,” Morgana corrects him tightly, “I mean, I can’t _see_.”

^

An hour, three scans, and a lot of prodding later, and Gaius finally tells Morgana that she’s brain-damaged. His voice is soft and apologetic and she can picture the look on his face though she can’t see it. Parts of her brain have burnt out and now… now she’s blind.

It’s very nearly ironic, though she can’t really see the funny side.

She’s taken to a different room, apparently – they could be taking her anywhere, for all she knows – one that she can share with Merlin. Merlin who is not quite dead but certainly nowhere near alive, and the memory of seeing him fall is still fresh in her mind.

“How does he look?” she asks.

“Corpse-like,” Gwen responds flatly, voice telling the story of her exhaustion. 

The room _sounds_ crowded; Arthur and Lance and Hunith and Gwen, and Morgana swallows down the desperate urge to cry because her visions and her _vision_ seem like a tiny price to pay to be alive and sane to enjoy being alive, but it still _stings_.

Arthur hasn’t let go of her hand in a very long time. It’s his birthday and Morgana reflects that it’s kind of a _shitty_ way to spend it; stuck in hospital with his dying not-boyfriend and his newly-blind sister. Still, the world as they know it is still more or less intact, so it could be worse, she supposes.

The space where her visions lived gapes widely. Morgana isn’t sure how to describe it; but it does feel like losing a limb, something that was part of her body and is now completely gone. She sits still and exhausted and listens to the machines keeping Merlin alive, and tries to remember all the things she saw after falling in the rain. They slip away from her hands; she hopes she’ll remember when it matters. When it’s _important_.

Mid-morning, Lance leaves and takes Gwen with him, so they can both change their clothes and grab a few hours of sleep. Gaius has told them that what’s wrong with Merlin won’t be fixed quickly and might not be fixed at all, but they’ll have prior warning whatever happens. Morgana can sense tension between her stepbrother and Gaius, but knows better than to ask; it’s not the time. Hunith, voice flat with misery, says she’s going to go and find some food, and Morgana tries to fumble for something comforting to say. She’s relieved to be alive, but most words of optimism vanished when she opened her eyes to find everything was still dark.

When they’re alone, Morgana disentangles her hand from Arthur’s.

“Go and sit with him,” she says softly.

“What?” Arthur is perched on the end of her bed, his warm comforting presence possibly the only thing keeping her from panicking. 

“Go and sit with him,” she repeats. “I know you need to.”

She gives him a little push, and listens to him slipping from her bed and walking across the room to what is presumably Merlin’s. Left alone, Morgana reaches up and kneads at her now useless eyes, sighing at just how completely fucked _up_ this is; she loses the ability to see the future and to _see_ at the same time. She can adapt, she knows; but it’s still strange. Still _frustrating_. 

Morgana twines a lock of her tangled hair around her fingers.

“How bad does your broken nose look?” she asks. “If it heals wonky and your looks are marred I’ll be devastated that I can’t see.”

“My looks are not _marred_ ,” Arthur snaps, but she can hear amusement in his voice. “Maybe I’ll have a small scar. It’ll make me look rakish.”

“Oh dear lord,” Morgana murmurs. Louder, she says: “Really, Arthur, how does Merlin look?”

“Dead,” Arthur replies. The word breaks in his mouth. “He looks dead, Morgana.”

She drops her head back against the pillow, keeping her hands pressed to her face. It’s nice to pretend the darkness is artificial and not her _life_ now.

“I told him,” she murmurs. “I told him he was going to die.”

“When?” Arthur asks sharply. And: “ _What_?”

“After he woke up,” Morgana says. She has to admit it; she felt _terrible_ , though she knows she’d do it again in a heartbeat. “I told him that Nimueh was going to kill him.”

Arthur sighs. “You were only seventy percent right,” he points out. There’s a pause. “That explains it,” he says, half to himself.

Morgana frowns. “You didn’t pity fuck him again, did you?” she demands.

“ _No_ ,” Arthur snaps.

Morgana smiles. “Well, you’re certainly growing as a person,” she remarks.

“Just how _low_ is your opinion of me?” Arthur asks incredulously.

“It’s far too high,” Morgana responds softly. “Considering you’re an _obnoxious twat_ and everything.”

She hears him laugh; hesitant and helpless. “Thanks, Morgana; that means a lot.”

They sit in silence for a moment; Arthur with Merlin, Morgana trying to get used to the darkness slotted in front of her eyes.

“Thank you,” she murmurs at last.

“Don’t,” Arthur mutters.

Morgana smiles weakly, and wonders if she’ll ever be able to stop Arthur from feeling guilty. She doesn’t repeat the words, but promises herself she’ll find some way to ease his remorse.

^

When Morgana has fallen asleep in a way that doesn’t fill Arthur with fear – he honestly _doesn’t know_ what they’re going to do about her new blindness, but he knows they’ll find a way to cope with it, they’re strong – and Lance and Gwen have returned to stay with Hunith and Merlin, Arthur goes to find Gaius.

“I think we need to talk,” he says.

Gaius smiles at him; reassuring and warm and Arthur almost forgets that he’s angry. “We do,” he agrees.

They go back to Gaius’ office; Arthur is half dead on his feet and knows that sooner or later he’s going to collapse from exhaustion. Still, this is a conversation that he _needs_ to have.

“You worked with Edwin,” he says accusingly, folded onto a squashy sofa in the corner.

“I did,” Gaius agrees. He sighs, looking down at his hands, and then back at Arthur. “I was at school with Hunith’s father,” he tells him. “We studied medicine together; he asked me to keep an eye on his daughter on his deathbed. I did what I could for Hunith, though I could never replace her father after his untimely death.” Gaius smiles almost ruefully. “She met the man who would become Merlin’s father when she was very young; barely twenty. He had a magical ability; plants grew when he touched them, flowers blossomed because he blew on them. Hunith was enchanted; I was intrigued. I’d read few medical papers on people with superhuman powers, and I wanted to know more. Merlin’s father was reluctant to answer my questions, but I resolved to do more research into people who could control magic. I wanted to know if science and magic could be combined to make medicine more efficient.” He sighs. “I was naïve. But Hunith married him, and I found people who _were_ willing to talk to me. I learned all I could about magic, about how it manifested itself; I even wrote a book.”

Arthur frowns. “Morgana’s never read it; and she’s read everything she could find about people with abnormal abilities.”

“It’s never been published,” Gaius replies. “But I think I can safely say I’ve collected more data than any other person on earth.” He pauses for a long moment, and then continues: “A few years after Hunith got married, she gave birth to Merlin. By then, her marriage was in trouble and I never pressed to find out what he’d done; by the time Merlin was eight months old the divorce papers were signed and Hunith was left with a handsome amount of money and that rather lovely house of hers.” Gaius smiles in an almost reminiscent way. “Merlin was levitating objects before he could walk, before he could talk.”

“So you conducted experiments on him?” Arthur suggests, hearing suspicious bitterness in his voice.

Gaius shakes his head vehemently. “No! I only ever performed tests on people who were fully aware what they were getting into and who wanted to aid in my research. I’ve never investigated Merlin and what he can and can’t do, in the same way I never did it to Morgana.”

It’s too late for Morgana now, Arthur remembers with a sickening kick in his stomach. She’s…normal now. It doesn’t fit in his head, and he knows it will take a long time to get used to it.

“I met Edwin at a conference,” Gaius continues after a moment, when Arthur says nothing, “He was also doing research into combining magic and science.” He looks intently at Arthur. “I know you won’t believe me, but he was a different man then. It was the days before he was burnt, and he was so bright and _enthusiastic_.” His smile is bitter. “Merlin reminds me of him, a little. Edwin was charming and excited about things once too.”

Arthur finds this difficult to believe, but doesn’t say it aloud.

“We worked together for a few years. Edwin was a prodigy; he was unbelievably talented. I honestly think that there was nothing he couldn’t have achieved if he didn’t put his mind to it. But there was an accident one night; an experiment exploded and I don’t know if he was using his power but he was horribly burnt and a few weeks after being discharged from hospital he… disappeared. Just packed up and left his home one night, and no one ever heard from him again.” Gaius grimaces. “I half-thought he might have killed himself; that’s why I was so surprised when it turned out he wasn’t dead, but was actually poisoning Morgana.”

“You knew the others,” Arthur says, voice still more accusing than he means it to be. “You must have met Nimueh.”

“I did.” Gaius inclines his head. 

“Five minutes with her would’ve been all you’d need to see she was _fucking insane_ ,” Arthur points out, “That she was willing to use her power to murder people. And all you did was take notes and send her on her way?”

“I made a mistake,” Gaius agrees solemnly.

“A mistake that could get your godson killed!” Arthur points out, fury breaking through.

“I continued my experiments without Edwin,” Gaius says, ignoring him. “I managed to find a virus capable of damaging the DNA responsible for magic access, but I thought it could be used as a vaccine to remove a person’s powers if they were becoming a danger to themselves.” He sighs, looking down at his hands. “I would never have willingly used it as a weapon against someone.”

Arthur desperately wants to blame Gaius for all this, wants him to be responsible, but he knows that just because Gaius turned the other cheek a few times it doesn’t mean that he in any way helped Nimueh and the others, and he should probably stop hating him for it.

“I discovered another useful chemical,” Gaius says lightly, carefully. “I saved your life with it.”

“I don’t understand,” Arthur tells him.

“Morgana and I put it in your tea,” Gaius explains. “Another virus. It didn’t harm you, but it _did_ make you impervious to magic that was used against you.”

Arthur is about to tell Gaius that he’s not a fucking _experiment_ when he remembers Valiant’s magical sword that should have cut through Arthur’s arm and didn’t; the unicorns that were as ghosts to him, that passed through him like mist instead of impaling him.

“Oh,” he says, as the pieces of the puzzle fall into place, “Oh, that was _you_.”

“I’m sorry I did it without your permission,” Gaius responds, “Morgana asked that I not tell you.”

“And you didn’t think to, I don’t know, drug _Merlin_ up with it?” Arthur asks sharply.

“It wouldn’t work on someone who uses magic,” Gaius says. “It would have hurt Morgana or Merlin if I’d given it to them, and Morgana assured me that Gwen and Lance wouldn’t need it.”

“Lance got his arm cut open by a unicorn,” Arthur points out. “I mean, all right, I know the scar will make him even more sexy and mysterious than he already is, but if that could’ve been prevented-”

“I can’t see the future,” Gaius reminds him patiently, “I did only as your sister asked.”

“Right.” Arthur is too tired for this, and now things make sense he feels less betrayed than he did, but he knows he needs to get some rest. “I suppose I owe you an apology.”

“You don’t,” Gaius tells him.

“All right then.” Arthur offers him a feeble smile. “Well, thank you, I suppose.”

Gaius nods, and waves a hand at the sofa Arthur is sat on. “You can rest in here,” he says.

Arthur uncurls himself and lies down on the couch, asleep almost as soon as he’s horizontal. As he drifts off he reflects that Gaius still hasn’t given away the identity of Merlin’s father; he wonders if it’s significant or if he just doesn’t want Merlin to try and seek him out.

^

Morgana wakes up, panicking. It’s disconcerting for a moment, awaking to find that it’s still absolutely dark, and then her memories catch up with her.

“ _God_ ,” she breathes, still tense and frightened.

“What’s the matter, Morgana?”

Lance, standing close to her; one of his big, warm hands clutches hers. 

“There were… there were people, and they were standing in a room and they kept saying it was mine, but it wasn’t, and I was wearing this really ugly raincoat, and then there were unicorns, and-”

She hears Lance laugh; a gentle sound, and her mattress dips as he sits beside her.

“ _Morgana_ ,” he says softly, “It’s all right.” His fingers curl in her hair, soothing. “You’ve never had a dream before, have you?”

“I’ve had thousands of dreams,” Morgana responds, and then realises what he’s getting at. “…I’ve never had one that didn’t come true,” she admits.

“You are going to have so much fun,” he tells her, amusement in his tone. “Really, Morgana, _so_ much fun.” He tucks a lock of hair tenderly behind her ear. “Well, once you get used to it, anyway.”

Morgana isn’t sure she can _ever_ get used to it; she doesn’t know how people do it. Oh, she knows in _principle_ how dreams work, but the idea of her subconscious shuffling through all its reference points and then throwing them together to make a tangled, uncontrollable vision seems horrific.

She reaches up her hand and manages to grasp Lance’s hand after a moment.

“Where’s Arthur?” she asks as his fingers entwine with hers.

“Getting some rest,” Lance replies. “He had to sleep before he actually _fell down_.”

Morgana pictures Arthur being stubborn and pale and bloody and smiles slightly. “About time,” she murmurs. She takes a breath. “And Merlin?” she asks in a whisper.

“No change,” Lance tells her. “His hand twitched about half an hour ago, but there hasn’t been a repeat performance and his brain activity hasn’t increased any.” He sighs, shuffling a little closer to her. “All tests show he’s in a deep coma,” Lance tells her, “But Gaius says that it’s not quite true. He’s just… not really there.”

Morgana isn’t reassured by this; she _hates_ the fact that she could never see Merlin in her visions, because she wants to know how this all turns out. She wants to be able to reassure everyone, or at least prepare them for the worst. Anything more than this _waiting_.

But this is what she has now, and she’ll have to learn to live with it.

“I take it Gaius doesn’t have any bright ideas?” she asks.

Lance sighs heavily. “Not just yet.” He squeezes Morgana’s hand, and he appears to be taking up kind of a lot of her bed. “I’ll stay with you until Arthur gets back.”

“I don’t need to be babysat,” Morgana tells him sharply.

“You don’t,” Lance agrees. In his tone she can hear, unsaid, relief and affection, the _I thought you were dead for a while there_ , and understands that this is as much for Lance as it is for her.

She listens to Merlin’s heart monitor for a while; after a moment she can hear Gwen and Hunith, shuffling around quietly, occasionally exchanging a word or two.

“Are we all going to be arrested?” Lance asks her conversationally.

_I don’t see the future any more_ , Morgana wants to say. “Well,” she murmurs, “Not unless you’ve been doing something I don’t know about.” She forces a smile. “Are you secretly breaking the law, Lance?”

“You mean, apart from the crack den in my basement?”

Morgana’s smile finally feels real. “Apart from that,” she agrees.

“It’s just… I ditched the gun but shouldn’t people be coming to ask us about the conspicuous dead bodies?”

Morgana shakes her head. “There’s no evidence,” she points out. When Lance remains silent, she explains: “Edwin was burnt; nothing left of him. Nimueh dissolved back into her rain. Anhora walked away.”

“Valiant was leaving bloody big trails of… well, blood,” Lance reminds her. “He was fairly conspicuous.”

“Didn’t Anhora tell you?” Morgana asks.

“Tell us what?” Lance sounds suspicious.

“He got rid of Valiant’s body for you,” Morgana tells him; it was one of the last things she saw, and one that has stuck firmly in her mind. “He summons the unicorns from… another dimension or something. I’m not entirely certain of the specifics, but anyway, he sent Valiant’s body there too. No murders, no murder weapons; just a few vandalised statues and some suspicious scorch marks.”

“So… Valiant’s corpse is in another dimension?”

Morgana nods. “I imagine the unicorns will eat him,” she says lightly.

Lance laughs. “Oh, wait ‘til I tell Arthur,” he replies. “That’s… really _cool_. And horrible.”

“Gaius should keep the hospital staff from asking too many questions,” Morgana adds. “I think we’ll get away with it.”

She feels Lance’s hand brush across her cheek, thumb resting close to her eye. “If you can call this _getting away with it_ ,” he murmurs, sounding more pessimistic than she’s heard in a long time.

“I’m alive,” she reminds him, “After that, all other concerns become secondary.”

Lance doesn’t seem to be able to say anything; his mouth presses against her temple. Morgana smiles, squeezing her friend’s hand. It’s a lot to get used to; she’s going to have to learn to adapt, but she is surrounded by people who love her and she has more money than _God_ , so she’s sure she’ll survive one way or another.

It’s Merlin that she’s worried about now.

^

Two days later, it’s still raining and Merlin is still resolutely in a coma. He’s breathing on his own now and moves from time to time; about three times a day, on average, little shudders or twitches, and he’s said a couple of incomprehensible words, but apart from that he’s staying utterly still and utterly silent and utterly _pretty much dead_. Arthur splits most of his time between his bedside and Morgana’s; his sister is becoming brighter and happier, blindness aside.

Uther has come to visit; Gaius took him aside when he got to the hospital and clearly told him something satisfying, because Arthur’s father has mercifully not asked him any awkward questions. They put Morgana in a separate room for Uther’s visit – it was unlikely that Uther would understand her need to be in a room with Merlin – and Arthur left his father and Morgana to it for a while. When he came back, Morgana’s cheeks were wet and Uther didn’t look all that much better, but they were both smiling and that was reassuring. 

“He’s got to get back to work,” Morgana said softly, “He needs to buy out the Griffin Corporation before someone else does.”

“You’ve still got it,” Arthur told her, managing a smile, “You’re still bloody creepy, you know?”

And Morgana nodded, hand still clasped tight in Uther’s. “I try my best,” she replied.

Hunith doesn’t leave Merlin’s bedside very often, though she’s been told considerably more about what actually happened. Arthur and Morgana are paying for her to stay in a very nice hotel – she protested for a few minutes, but even Gwen joined in the pleading, and Hunith caved – and she’s willing to stay for as long as it takes for something in Merlin’s condition to change. Uther mentioned something about Arthur returning to work when they’d left Morgana’s room, but Arthur just glared pointedly at him and Uther sighed, nodded, and has put him on a leave of absence of some kind.

“You should take Morgana home,” Gaius tells Arthur quietly.

“If you think I’m leaving-” Arthur begins furiously.

“No,” Gaius cuts him off. “You can come back, but I think you both need to go home, get clean, change your clothes, and have a change of environment for a few hours.”

Gaius may have a point – reluctant as Arthur is to admit it – which is how he finds himself half an hour later pushing Morgana around in a wheelchair while she complains loudly about the indignity of the whole thing. Arthur knows that part of her is just trying to hide some understandable anxiety, but humours her grievances anyway.

Morgana gets quieter and quieter in the taxi on the way home, gazing sightlessly out of the windows with an expression that can only be described as _pensive_. Arthur tries to take her hand, but she pulls it away from him, a scowl settling across her mouth. There’s still a lot for them to get used to, a lot of changes they’ll have to make. Arthur’s heart aches for Morgana, but he knows better than to say anything; pity would absolutely _kill_ her.

Arthur opens an umbrella as he gets out of the cab, reaching for Morgana’s hand and carefully guiding her out. She consents to take his arm and walks confidently beside him, but he can sense her unease, her uncertainty.

“I hate this,” she murmurs, when he’s got their front door open and led them both into the lift, “I hate being _helpless_.”

Arthur laughs softly. “Morgana, you’ll be many things in your life, but I promise you, ‘helpless’ will not _ever_ be one of them.”

“Because I’m a scary bitch?” she asks, but her lips are curling.

“Well, yes,” Arthur responds, “But also because you’re the strongest, bravest person I know. All right?”

“You’re really very sentimental under all those layers of _spoilt brat_ , aren’t you?” Morgana remarks teasingly, but her hand tightens on his arm and Arthur knows that she’s grateful for the words anyway.

Once inside their flat, Morgana lets go of him and is perfectly able to find her way to her room, Arthur following at a careful distance. She goes into her ensuite bathroom and, movements careful and considered, starts running herself a bath.

“See?” Arthur says, and feels guilty as he makes her jump. “You’re really not helpless at all.”

He leaves her to it and goes to pick up all their post from the hallway; letters and newspapers and bills that have piled up. Deciding that just because Morgana is capable of running herself a bath doesn’t mean that she should be left entirely unattended – she’s still very weak, after all – he returns to Morgana’s room. She’s lying in the tub, mercifully surrounded by about five inches of bubbles – “I may have misjudged how much bubble bath I put in”, she remarks wryly – and Arthur sits on the toilet lid and reads her interesting bits out of the newspaper.

Arthur is forced to abandon any embarrassment and help her to wash her hair, helps her out of the tub and wraps her up in a big white towel.

“Better?” he asks.

“Much,” Morgana replies. “Your turn.” When he hesitates, she adds: “I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself, Arthur. And the sooner we’re done here the sooner we can go back to the hospital.”

Arthur obediently goes for a shower, enjoying being home in spite of himself. He tries not to think about Merlin lying in his coma with Hunith and Gwen looking haggard and tired, and Lance attempting to be strong for everyone while looking increasingly trapped and miserable. Arthur wants to get his best friend away from the hospital for his own good, but knows that Lance will never leave Merlin and Morgana – or Gwen, for that matter. 

When he’s had a shower and shaved and put clean clothes on, he feels a lot better and goes to find out what Morgana’s got up to. She’s in their living room, dressed in black jeans and a loose purple shirt that have always gone well together, and a pair of black and purple Jimmy Choo stilettos are sitting next to the sofa.

“Nice to see you haven’t lost your fashion sense,” he tells her.

“I’d have to be _actually_ dead for that to happen,” Morgana replies cheerfully. She’s sitting on the floor beside their bookcase, pulling things out. “And really, Arthur, _don’t_ wear that shirt.”

“You can’t see me and you don’t dream the future any more,” Arthur protests, “And if you had drugged-up visions of what I’m going to wear every day, that’s just plain _creepy_.”

“I have _nightmares_ about that shirt,” Morgana responds readily. “It’s the orange one that you think looks retro, but in reality it just makes you look like a piece of furniture from a seventies porn movie. And before you say anything, you _know_ I’ve seen seventies porn because you and Lance got hold of some when we were sixteen and I was the one who made the popcorn.”

There really is no answer he can give to that; Morgana is still scarily good at times. Arthur resolves that he’ll go and put another shirt on in a moment. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, walking closer. Morgana has made a neat pile out of all their Inadvisable Coffee Table books.

“We need to give these away,” she responds lightly. “We certainly don’t need them, and I think we both know that being _grown up_ is not judged by our interior design choices. So the stupid coffee table books are going to go.”

“Even the elephant one?” Arthur asks, and is ashamed at how his voice trembles.

Morgana sighs. “The _only_ possible reason you could have for wanting to keep the elephant one is because Merlin has read it a couple of times, and if that actually _is_ the case then you’re in a lot of fucking trouble, aren’t you?”

Arthur is relieved she can’t see him flushing. “I…” He trails off, with no idea where he’s going with the sentence.

“No,” Morgana says firmly, carefully feeling her way down the spine of their random Sailing Ships book and pulling it from the shelf. “They’re going, and so are all the other things we bought because we thought they’d make us adults by sheer proximity. All right?”

Arthur supposes they really have managed to grow up these last few months; they’re not quite the people they were before this all started, and that’s both a relief and a shame.

“All right,” he agrees. “I’ll make us some lunch, how about that?”

Morgana gives him an incredulous look.

“I can make pasta,” he protests, “And… toast. We’ll be _fine_.”

Morgana laughs at him, and then turns her attention back to clearing out their bookcase. Arthur lets her do it, and goes to try not to burn their house down while making food.

^

Gwen came home in the middle of the afternoon and she and Morgana have elected to stay at the flat; Lance has gone to get some rest, unable to cope with being in the hospital much longer, and Hunith has finally gone to get some sleep. It’s the first time Arthur has been alone with Merlin since carrying his body from the graveyard. He sits and watches Merlin’s face; the other man’s mouth moves from time to time, half the way to saying words before he fails. Merlin is more alert this evening, and Arthur reminds himself not to feel optimism because Merlin still isn’t any closer to being alive or awake. Gaius’ explanation is that Merlin isn’t really _there_ ; his spirit and consciousness are somewhere else. He’s moving, but he’s practically braindead.

“This is ridiculous,” Arthur mutters, picking at the fraying edge of one of the bandages on Merlin’s hand. “Merlin, this is _ridiculous_.”

Merlin says nothing, but his fingers shake. 

Arthur goes to get a cup of coffee, and when he comes back Merlin is mumbling; words that Arthur can’t make out but they sound uncertain and nervous, and his head moves from side to side, hands shuddering on the blanket.

“You have to stop this,” Arthur orders, leaning to catch one of Merlin’s wrists. “You have to wake up. You’re safe now, Merlin, you’re _safe_.”

Merlin _whimpers_. It’s a horrible sound that goes straight through Arthur, and he grits his teeth. He’s never seen Merlin like this; not even on the night they lay on the sofa together and apparently Merlin knew he was going to _die_. Arthur can’t imagine what must have been going through Merlin’s head at the time, but he didn’t let any of it show.

Arthur hears a sound behind him and turns to find Gaius standing in the doorway, looking grave and sad.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says weakly.

“He’s scared,” Gaius replies. 

“Of what?” Arthur demands.

Gaius shakes his head. “I don’t know what exists in the space between life and death,” he murmurs. “I hope never to find out.”

Arthur looks back at Merlin, whiter than usual and bloodless lips trembling.

“What do I do?” he asks.

“He’s scared,” Gaius repeats, and he seems about to say something else when his pager goes off and he has to leave. Left alone with Merlin, Arthur grits his teeth and curls his hand over Merlin’s bandaged one.

“It’s ok,” he says. Merlin ignores him and makes another little helpless noise, and Arthur wonders how on earth he’s meant to fix this. Merlin is terrified but he isn’t _here_ and Arthur can guess that the gap between life and death has something other than flesh-eating unicorns in it.

If it was anyone else – Lance, for example, or Morgana – he wouldn’t even think twice about what he has to do.

“All right,” Arthur mutters, giving in, and carefully climbs onto the bed. He avoids the wires as best he can and gently wraps his arms around Merlin, hoping that wherever Merlin is he can feel this anyway. Merlin makes a miserable sound into Arthur’s shoulder but he’s not twitching about as much any more, and Arthur lets himself think that maybe in a moment Merlin will wake up and he’ll be able to yell at him for being so damn _terrifying_.

With perfect, agonised clarity, Merlin groans: “Will!” He sounds agitated, insistent: “ _Will_ …”

Arthur is too strong and too tired and not nearly sentimental enough for this to break his heart, but it makes him bite his lower lip far too hard and after a moment he can’t stop himself from disentangling himself from Merlin, deciding he’ll go and get some more coffee that’s actually _hot_ and hopefully when he gets back he won’t have to hear just how much Merlin misses Will.

It’s so quiet that Arthur really isn’t sure he’s heard it right, but Merlin whispers: “ _Arthur_ ”, low and urgent, and the door slams shut as soon as Arthur opens it.

“Merlin!” he turns back to the bed, but Merlin isn’t awake. Isn’t even close to awake; he’s quiet and still again, as though the last ten minutes haven’t happened.

“You,” Arthur says accusingly, walking back over to the bed, “Are subconsciously emotionally blackmailing me, Merlin Emrys, you _bastard_.” He isn’t sure if it’s laughter or tears in his voice, and decides not to investigate further. “It’s not on, you know?”

Merlin says nothing, and Arthur isn’t expecting him to, but he toes off his shoes and gets back on the bed and listens as Merlin’s heartrate slows and becomes even the moment Arthur touches him.

“When you wake up and you aren’t _horribly dead_ , you’re going to be _mine_ ,” Arthur informs him, low and hard, “And I’m not taking _no_ for an answer. Have you got that, Emrys?”

Merlin says nothing, his eyelids don’t even flicker.

“Good,” Arthur says. 

^

Hunith’s smile is fond when she wakes Arthur up with a cup of coffee and some toast. 

“It’s just cafeteria toast,” she tells him, “But it’ll probably taste all right.”

Arthur does his best not to blush, because he is the son of _Uther Pendragon_ and he is rich and obnoxious and utterly unflappable or something, but he really can’t think of anything to say to Hunith about her coming in to find him asleep on the bed with her son.

“Thanks,” he says sheepishly, letting go of Merlin and sliding off the bed.

Hunith hands him the coffee and Arthur sips it, trying to read expressions into Merlin’s unconscious face.

“Don’t worry,” Hunith tells him after a moment, “I’m not going to say anything embarrassing.”

Arthur can’t quite voice his thanks, so nods as gratefully as he can and reaches for the toast. 

About half an hour later, Gwen and Morgana arrive; his sister with her fingers curled in Gwen’s sleeve, happily walking in four inch heels. Arthur can’t stop a smile from spreading across his face; his sister will never let herself be anything other than regal and glamorous, and he loves her for it.

“Any change?” Gwen asks, as she can Morgana come to sit by the bed.

“I had my hopes last night,” Arthur replies, “He seemed a bit more responsive, but… no. No change.”

Gwen nods, trying not to look disappointed. Arthur reaches and squeezes her arm and she smiles at him.

“We’ll get him awake,” he promises her. “If we have to do something painful and drastic to him, we’ll get him awake.” He gives Gwen a wicked smirk. “Maybe if we gave him a haircut.”

Hunith laughs. Gaius walks in, looking tired but rather cheerful.

“Arthur, Guinevere, could I borrow you for a while?”

Morgana frowns, but reaches, feeling her way across the blanket until she finds one of Merlin’s hands. Arthur leaves Merlin with Morgana and Hunith, and he and Gwen walk out.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“Last night made me realise,” Gaius says, “Merlin really isn’t going to find his way out of the void alone. He’s far too deep and I don’t want to leave him there much longer.”

“So where are we going?” Gwen asks, as Gaius leads them into the lift.

“I know someone who might be able to help,” Gaius says. “I haven’t mentioned them earlier because I honestly don’t know, but the time is coming for desperate measures.” He smiles at them both. “I’ve called Lance; he will be meeting us.”

“Meeting us where?” Arthur asks.

Gaius doesn’t reply; merely walks out into the rain to hail them a cab.

“Where do you think we’re going?” Gwen asks him as they go to join Gaius.

Arthur shrugs. “God knows.”

Gaius says little to them during the cab journey, and so Arthur resigns himself to watching raindrops rolling down the windows and trying not to be anxious.

“Who is this friend of yours?” Gwen asks eventually.

Gaius smiles slightly; it might be a grimace. “Oh, I wouldn’t exactly call them a _friend_. More an acquaintance, really.”

Arthur notes the use of _them_ and isn’t reassured.

Apparently they’re going to Barbican tube station; Lance is waiting for them at the entrance, shoulders hunched under his leather jacket, hair full of rain.

“Any change?” he asks when he sees them.

Arthur, Gwen and Gaius all shake their heads. Lance sighs, and they all walk into the station. Gaius uses the machine to buy them all tickets, while the others exchange bemused expressions.

“What’s going on?” Arthur demands, once they’ve passed through the ticket barriers and are heading down to the platform.

“This is where they live,” Gaius explains, still annoyingly cryptic. “They’ve been here since the line was built; over a hundred years ago.”

“They _live_ down here?” Gwen echoes. She murmurs, half to herself: “This has all got a bit _Neverwhere_.”

Since it isn’t the rush hour any more, the platform is empty. Gaius leads them down towards the end of the platform, near a tunnel, and glances around before carefully climbing down, off the platform.

“Are you mad?” Arthur hisses. “I didn’t stab Valiant to death just so I could get squished by a tube train!”

Gaius sighs, and points at the sign that says the next train to Uxbridge isn’t due for another five minutes. Arthur grits his teeth, and obediently slides down to stand on the foot of concrete between the platform and the rails, and Lance joins him before reaching up to help Gwen down. Arthur swallows down the smirk this threatens to evoke, and they all follow Gaius down the line, away from the brightly lit station into the tunnel, which has white electric lights down the walls.

“This is possibly the weirdest thing I’ve done recently,” Arthur says aloud.

“Weirder than fighting stone snakes and potentially imaginary unicorns?” Lance asks, sounding amused.

“Yes,” Arthur replies, and adds: “And they weren’t imaginary.”

“So you’re just special?” Lance responds, and when Arthur glances back he can see he’s still holding Gwen’s hand.

“If you haven’t worked that out by _now_ , Lance, then I don’t know how else to convince you,” Arthur tells him, and nearly trips over Gaius as the older man stops abruptly. In the dim light, Arthur can see Gaius searching through his pockets, and his heart leaps into his mouth as the lines begin to sing with electricity, indicating a train is on its way.

“We _are_ going to get squished by a train,” Arthur says accusingly.

“Do you trust me?” Gaius asks urgently.

Arthur desperately wants to say _no_ , but it would be a lie. “I do,” he replies. “I trust you.”

Gaius holds up what looks like a silver key, and he fits it into what Arthur thinks is just the wall until he notes the hinges.

“Oh my God,” he says, as Gaius pushes open a door, revealing a well-lit passage.

“Come on,” Gaius murmurs, and Arthur hurries behind him, hearing Gwen and Lance follow. The door slams shut the moment they’re all in, but Gaius doesn’t turn; just keeps walking.

They walk down one flight of steps, and then another.

“Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to,” Gaius says quietly. “I promise you’re not in any danger, but just… be careful.”

Arthur is about to ask what the hell is going on here when they come to the end of a corridor and end up on what seems to be another platform. The adverts pasted to the wall are old, yellowing and peeling, and when he looks straight ahead Arthur realises with a sickening sort of _crunch_ in his stomach that instead of another wall, there’s a _gigantic_ sort of cavern.

“Oh bloody hell,” Gwen says weakly, and Arthur feels her other hand curl around his. He squeezes back, refusing to be scared.

Gaius walks up to the edge of the platform, standing on the painted lines indicating that it won’t be safe to stand beyond them, and calls:

“It is I, Gaius. I need to speak to you.”

There’s nothing, and then the strangest flapping sound. It sounds a little like the rushing sound a train makes at the end of a tunnel, but it’s _much_ louder, though it’s also accompanied by the rushing of air. And then… Arthur’s mouth drops open, Gwen draws in a sharp breath, and Lance mutters _oh my fucking God_. 

“I take it back,” Arthur murmurs, “ _This_ is the weirdest thing I’ve _ever_ done.”

The Dragon – because that’s what it is; an honest to _God_ Dragon, big and scaly with sharp golden eyes and pointed teeth and talons that are about as long as _Arthur_ – snickers.

“Gaius,” it says, and it speaks with cut-glass vowels and a cruel twist of amusement to its voice, “I haven’t seen you down here in a while. I believe I made it clear you were no longer welcome.”

Gwen’s nails are biting into the back of Arthur’s hand, and he thinks he might be squeezing her back tight enough to crush her fingers. Lance has gone extremely pale, Arthur notes when he glances at the other two, staring with wide eyes at the _impossible_ creature.

“I know,” Gaius responds, “And I wouldn’t come if it wasn’t urgent.”

“You want a favour?” The Dragon doesn’t have eyebrows and yet it seems to be raising them all the same. The tiny part of Arthur that isn’t currently shrivelled up in fear is rather impressed by this. “ _You_ have come to ask _me_ for a favour?”

“I ask you to help a young man grievously injured by Nimueh,” Gaius tells him, and Arthur is impressed because if the Dragon was looking at _him_ the way it’s looking at Gaius, he would be backing away and cowering. 

“Oh, Nimueh.” The Dragon is definitely smiling now, in a way that Arthur doesn’t entirely like. “A magnificent woman, if a little misguided.” It sighs, a wave of heat rolling over them all, “I believe she is dead now. A pity.”

Arthur opens his mouth, but Gwen tugs his hand in warning, and he obediently closes it again.

“Nimueh, before her death, stranded a man between life and death,” Gaius says firmly. “He cannot find his way back unaided.”

“The time for asking favours died when you developed the chemical that would _kill_ me,” the Dragon tells Gaius sharply.

“I didn’t create it with that intention,” Gaius insists, and Arthur can tell this is a discussion that they’ve had numerous times before. “And the young man trapped between this world and the next is Merlin Emrys.”

The Dragon’s expression alters slightly; Arthur isn’t entirely sure what this means, but it looks considerably less hostile, which is always a good thing.

“Merlin Emrys,” the Dragon says, slowly, rolling the words around its mouth in a way that’s somewhat sinister. 

“He’s very powerful,” Gaius says, “You must have _felt_ him.”

The Dragon inclines its head. “The boy who can bend lighting to his will,” it says, “Of course I have felt him.”

Arthur remembers the lightning in the graveyard, and suddenly realises how Merlin killed Nimueh. It’s a strange thought, picturing Merlin killing _anyone_ , but then he recalls Sophia and Edwin and decides that he is going to get Merlin into therapy the moment he wakes up.

“I am afraid he will not come back,” Gaius says, “I am afraid he _cannot_ come back, and I ask for you to help him find his way.”

The Dragon is silent, expression utterly unreadable.

“Please,” Gwen says, dropping Lance and Arthur’s hands and stepping forward. “Please, you have to help him, however you feel about Gaius.”

The Dragon turns its attention to her, and Arthur unconsciously steps nearer to Gwen, seeing Lance doing the same on her other side.

“Guinevere,” the Dragon says slowly, and Arthur isn’t even surprised that it already knows her name, “You are pure of heart.” Its mouth curves into something that’s a parody of a smile. “Very few humans are pure of heart.”

It certainly _sounds_ like a compliment, though Arthur still isn’t sure that he entirely trusts the Dragon. Still, if it can help Merlin…

“It will be difficult,” the Dragon says slowly. “Nimueh has pushed him very close to death.”

“You’re a fucking _dragon_ ,” Arthur snaps, forgetting to be afraid as the hope rising within him is suddenly squashed. “If you can’t fix this, who can?”

“Arthur Pendragon,” the Dragon says slowly. Just his name, thoughtful and considering. Arthur swallows hard, but doesn’t back down; he keeps staring earnestly at the Dragon.

“Please,” Arthur murmurs, “Please help him.”

“You care a lot for young Emrys,” the Dragon says slowly.

“We do,” Lance says, firm and certain.

The Dragon tries to stare the four of them down, but none of them flinch. 

“Very well,” the Dragon inclines its head, “I will attempt to find him and lead him home.” It fixes them with a firm look. “It will be difficult and it may take time, but I will do everything that I am capable.”

Arthur’s knees feel weak, and beside him Gwen sways on her feet.

“Thank you,” Gaius says. 

The Dragon’s mouth curls into another vicious smile. “I am not doing this for _you_ ,” it informs him.

Its gaze lingers on Gwen and Lance and Arthur for a moment, and then, with another roaring sound, flies off into the cavern and is lost from view.

“There’s a dragon,” Arthur murmurs, “There’s a fucking _dragon_ in the underground.”

“It’s… really _cool_ ,” Lance says at last. “Terrifying, of course, but… cool nonetheless.”

“Come on,” Gaius tells them, “Let’s try and return to the station without being killed.”

^

Morgana is grateful that she can’t see Merlin in his hospital bed; from the hollow, anxious voices of the others, she gathers that he looks mostly dead. Hunith is cheerful, but Morgana doesn’t need to see her to know that most of it is forced; Merlin’s mother is scared for her son and Morgana can’t blame her. She sits quietly by Merlin’s bed and holds his bandaged hand and listens to him breathe; occasionally he mumbles something, or his hand twitches in hers, but he’s still gone.

“He’ll come back,” Morgana tells Hunith after a while, when Arthur and Gwen and Lance still haven’t returned. She’s swallowing her jealousy at the moment; trying to ignore the fact that if she could see she would have been able to go with them. Not knowing where they are is making her simultaneously uneasy and nauseous; she finally realises how much of her life she’s lived knowing exactly what’s happening to those she loves at any given moment. She honestly doesn’t know how people live with the mystery; it’s _horrible_.

“I know he will,” Hunith sighs.

Her warm, motherly arms close around Morgana a moment later; it’s a surprise but a relief, and Morgana clings to her; clings to what she’s never had, and for the first time feels tears pricking her throat.

“I’m so sorry, Morgana,” Hunith murmurs, stroking fingers through Morgana’s hair, “I’m so sorry for what’s happened to you.”

“It’s all right,” Morgana whispers into her shoulder, “I’m all right.”

But Hunith doesn’t let go of her and Morgana doesn’t let go either. She loved her mother truly and dearly and she knows that her mother loved _her_ , but she was never maternal and Morgana sinks into the warm, safe feeling that no one has ever given her before.

When the others return, Morgana is feeling calmer and steadier and more certain of herself; they’re quieter but seem more cheerful.

“What happened?” she asks when Lance sits beside her.

“I’ll tell you later,” he promises, “But it was… it was fucking _amazing_.”

There’s a flatness to his voice that Morgana has been noticing over the last few days, but it’s growing. She reaches toward him, manages to find his hand, and stands up, pulling him with her.

“Come on,” she murmurs, and they walk out into the corridor together. 

“How bad is it?” she asks him, when they’re alone.

Lance doesn’t insult her by pretending to play dumb; they’ve known each other for too long for that. Lance is Arthur’s best friend, but he’s been Morgana just as long.

“Quite bad,” he admits. “The things I did… the things I _saw_ …”

Morgana hasn’t let go of his hand, and she squeezes it tightly. “We’ll understand,” she tells him. “Arthur and I are used to it, and Gwen will wait for you.”

She can’t see Lance staring at her, but she can picture his expression anyway.

“You’re beautiful, Lance,” she reminds him, “And you’re charming and kind and brave and lovely and provided you’re not gone for years on end she’ll still be around when you get back.”

Lance sighs. “I won’t go anywhere until Merlin’s awake,” he tells Morgana. 

It’s Lance’s one and only flaw, really; he has this crazy wanderlust that he’s never quite managed to contain, and he’s forever disappearing for months at a time to _find himself_ or whatever. He ran off to Hong Kong for eight months when he was seventeen, and it was only Morgana’s regular precognitive updates that kept Arthur from going _completely insane_. Both Morgana and Arthur can tell when Lance is getting restless and ready to run; there’s a tone to his voice, a look in his eyes. But even without those things, Morgana would be able to tell. The things they’ve been through recently are enough to make _anyone_ want to go far away for a while.

“Do you really think he’s going to wake up any time soon?” Morgana asks; curious, not defeatist.

“I think so,” Lance replies. 

Morgana is about to press him for details on the day when she hears Arthur shouting something, and she and Lance hurry back to Merlin’s room. Hunith, Arthur and Gwen are all talking at once, and Lance seems to know what they’re going on about because he starts saying something excitedly too, and it’s all a bit _too much_.

“What’s going on?” Morgana demands, and they all fall silent.

With all noise but Merlin’s heart monitor removed, Morgana slowly realises what they’re so excited about; she finally notices the absence of a sound that’s been there so long it became normal.

“Oh my God,” she says, “Is that what I think it is?”

“Yes,” Arthur tells her, and he’s laughing joyfully, “Morgana, it’s stopped raining.”

Morgana isn’t _entirely_ sure what that will mean for Merlin, but the fact that Nimueh’s rain is no longer falling can only be a good thing.

“So we won’t need to build an ark after all,” she says, and Arthur pulls her into a hug.

“No ark,” he agrees, “Which is just as well, really, because I can’t help thinking I wouldn’t be very good at carpentry.”

Morgana mock-gasps as he lets go of her. “The magnificent Arthur Pendragon admitting to being less than a hundred percent perfect?” she says incredulously. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Bitch,” he murmurs affectionately, but Morgana isn’t listening to him. She turns her head, trying to locate the other voice she can hear.

“What is it?” Arthur asks, alert and sharp.

“Shhh,” Morgana mutters.

It takes a moment, but she hears it again.

“What?” Arthur demands.

“You can’t hear that?” Morgana asks.

“Hear what?” Arthur sounds impatient and worried now.

_Merlin…_ Morgana doesn’t hear the name so much as feel it through her body; a rich rumble of sound, a perfect cut-glass accent. _Merlin…_

“That,” she says, “You can’t hear that?”

“I can’t hear anything,” Gwen says nervously.

_Merlin… this way, Merlin…_

“Someone keeps saying Merlin’s name,” Morgana insists. “You really can’t hear that?”

“No,” Arthur responds, leaving her side. “I’ll get Gaius.”

_Merlin… now, Merlin…_

Merlin’s heart monitor shows his heart skipping a beat, and Morgana grits her teeth as the voice continues to rumble through her. A couple of minutes later, and Arthur returns, bringing Gaius with him.

_Merlin, you need to listen to me, only me._

“Can’t you hear that?” Morgana asks.

“Hear _what_?” Arthur demands.

Gaius asks her in a much kinder way, and Morgana obediently relays what she’s been hearing. 

“It’s all right,” Gaius tells her, “You’re not mad. You’re hearing the Dragon.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Gwen says, as though this makes it all clear.

“You’re not making me sound sane,” Morgana points out.

“There’s a Dragon that lives underneath the Metropolitan Line,” Arthur informs her, “He’s going to help guide Merlin out of the void.”

“Right,” Morgana says, because she honestly can’t think of anything else to say. “This certainly has been a very strange week.”

“Why can she hear it?” Gwen asks. “None of the rest of us can.”

“Even without her abilities, Morgana is still susceptible to magic,” Gaius says, “I imagine that’s why she can hear the Dragon.”

Morgana doesn’t waste time disbelieving them, and is about to ask for a little more clarification when the Dragon utters another loud _MERLIN, listen to me_ , and one of Merlin’s machines starts beeping.

“What’s happening?” she asks eagerly. Gaius leaves her side but Arthur catches her hand and pulls her with him towards the bed.

“Increased brain activity,” Gaius says after a moment. “It’ll take time, but I believe Merlin is finally waking up.”

^

He can’t move his fingers and his hands kind of really _hurt_ , and there’s a lot of really obnoxious beeping going on. Merlin screws up his eyes against the light, and his facial muscles ache when he moves them. He scrabbles for recent memories, for anything that’s going to tell him what the fuck is going on; he vaguely remembers lightning and rain and pain and Nimueh… oh _God_ , Nimueh. And she killed him. So now, he’s… _dead_.

“If this is Heaven, I want my money back,” he croaks, and finally manages to force his eyelids open.

It takes a while to focus, because the room seems to be incredibly crowded. His mother is right beside him, fingers stroking back his hair, struggling to keep control of herself. Gwen is sobbing on Gaius’ shoulder, occasionally glancing at him and then choking on another wave of tears. Lance is grinning his beautiful movie-star grin at him, and Morgana isn’t looking directly at him but her cheeks are shining and wet, and Arthur’s mouth his curled in a smile, eyes raking over Merlin again and again.

“This isn’t Heaven, my love,” his mother tells him, “This is St George’s hospital.”

“Right,” he says. He has a headache, and his memories are scattered. “So, um, quite a big difference then.”

“I don’t know,” Lance says, “I’ve spent so long here it’s starting to feel quite home-like.”

Merlin notes that none of his friends are soaking wet; they’re all in clean clothes and are looking remarkably undamaged; Arthur has a thin white plaster stuck across the bridge of his nose, but that’s about it.

“I think I need an explanation,” he says. “Please.”

Everyone keeps talking across each other; trying to explain to Merlin that he’s been stuck between life and death for almost a week, and in the end they went to find a _Dragon_ , who helped him find his way back towards life again. Because apparently things like that happen in their crazy weird lives.

“You told me I’d die,” he tells Morgana, sounding a little more accusing than he means to.

“You _did_ ,” Morgana points out. “At least until they got your heart beating again.”

She’s still not looking at him, head tilted slightly. Merlin feels anxiety uncurl in his stomach.

“You thought _you_ were going to die,” he says. “It definitely _looked_ like you were going to die.”

“I survived,” Morgana replies grimly. “I’ve lost my powers, but I’m alive.”

Merlin tries to get that to fit into his head, but he can’t. Morgana can’t see the future any more? It seems impossible, wrong; he wonders how she’s coping, if she’s coping. He tries to work out how he’d feel if he lost _his_ abilities, and accidentally sends a nearby chair skidding across the room to bang into the wall. Morgana jumps, looking wildly around, and Merlin realises, without anyone needing to tell him, that she’s actually gone _blind_. 

“I’m fine,” Morgana promises him quietly.

Gwen is still crying, trying to control herself, and Merlin holds his arms open – he seems to be full of tubes, which is worrying, and his hands are bandaged from Edwin’s burns – offering Gwen a smile.

“Come here,” he says softly, and she practically throws herself onto the bed, wrapping her arms tight around him as though trying to convince herself that he’s really there. Merlin hugs her back, so damn _relieved_ to be safe and alive.

Once Gwen lets go of him, Gaius announces he needs to run some tests and chucks everyone but Merlin’s mother out; Arthur glances over his shoulder at Merlin a few times and Merlin realises that Arthur hasn’t actually said a single word since he’s woken up. He’s looked pleased, but he’s been completely silent. Merlin doesn’t know what to make of this and so doesn’t say anything; he just sits patiently and lets Gaius check that he’s fine. 

Eventually, Gaius leaves him and his mother alone, and Merlin sits there for a long time and is just held until he starts to feel normal again, and his mother seems to calm down a little. He knows that this last week can’t have been easy for anyone, and he can’t help but feel guilty for what he put them all through.

“I’m so sorry, mum,” he whispers.

“Don’t be stupid,” she replies, voice thick, and he hugs her tighter.

When the others are all allowed back in, they all cluster around Merlin as though scared he’ll relapse. Lance sits down on the end of Merlin’s bed.

“I’m off,” he tells Merlin soberly.

“Off where?” Merlin asks.

“Peru,” Lance responds calmly, as though this is a perfectly normal thing for someone to say. “In about three hours.”

“All right,” Merlin says, feeling a little blank, “Well… have fun.”

Lance pulls him into a big, warm hug, and presses a kiss to Merlin’s cheek. Merlin hopes to _God_ that he isn’t blushing, but he’s fully aware that a part of him will always be a little bit in love with Lance; it’ll never be an issue, and he already knows that pretty much everyone else who knows Lance is a little bit in love with him.

“Look after Arthur,” Lance whispers urgently in Merlin’s ear. He gives him one more squeeze and then sits back. “Take care of yourself, Merlin.”

“You too,” Merlin replies.

Lance exchanges hugs with everyone else; Merlin can see how upset Gwen looks, and his heart breaks a little bit for her.

“Gwen,” Lance says, “Will you see me into a cab?”

Gwen looks conflicted for a moment, and then gives him her very sweetest smile. “Yes,” she says, and leaves with him.

Once they’re safely out of the room, Arthur practically runs to the window. Morgana laughs, fingers curling over the end of Merlin’s bed.

“You won’t be able to see anything,” she tells her brother. “Lance has enough sense to get a cab somewhere _away_ from this window.”

Merlin’s mum says something about going to get everyone tea, and Arthur offers to accompany her. When they’re alone, Merlin manages to sit up and reach for Morgana’s hand, carefully pulling her until she’s sitting beside him.

“Are you all right?” he asks. He knows he’s the only one who can really understand how she feels; the hole that losing her powers will have left.

“No,” she replies, sighing shakily. Merlin rests his head on her shoulder. “But I’m getting there.”

^

Three days later, Merlin is going stir-crazy and Gaius is still refusing to discharge him. Gwen gets him a wheelchair in the afternoon and they go AWOL for a while; Gwen wraps him up warm in a coat and takes him outside.

“How are you holding up?” Merlin asks her, their hands entwined. His palms are still bandaged, but his fingers are peeling and healing in a way that’s deeply unattractive but a relief nonetheless.

“It’s just as well I’m resilient,” Gwen replies. “I mean, first of all Morgana _nearly dies_ and then just loses her powers and goes blind instead, and then you’re in a _coma_ , and _then_ we had to go and talk to a Dragon which was _terrifying_ , and then my boyfriend fucks off to Peru-” 

“Boyfriend?” Merlin interrupts.

Gwen flushes. “ _Yes_.”

Merlin fixes her with a glare. “And you didn’t tell me for _three days_?”

Gwen looks sheepish. “Sorry.”

“You should be,” Merlin tells her, but he’s grinning anyway. “You do realise that I am _jealous as hell_ , don’t you?”

Gwen shrugs. “You bagged Arthur Pendragon, you haven’t done so badly yourself.” She raises a teasing eyebrow. “Seriously, Merlin, just how good _are_ you in the sack?”

Merlin stares at her for a moment, opens his mouth to speak, closes it again, and stares at her some more. “I… _what_?”

Gwen sighs. “Oh _Merlin_. Only you could utterly fail to notice that Arthur is absolutely head-over-heels in love with you.”

Merlin continues to stare and blink at her, unable to process any of this.

“Once we established Morgana was going to live, Arthur has barely left your side,” Gwen explains patiently. “He slept next to your bed, he refused to go to work… his PA kept ringing us up practically in tears, though Lance said that was more ‘cause Galahad kept missing his daily eye candy fix, which is fair enough.”

“Arthur thinks I have the I.Q of _porridge_ ,” Merlin says weakly. “He despises my hair. He-”

“-is crazy about you,” Gwen finishes for him. “Really, Merlin, you have to work out what you want and fast because otherwise it’s going to get extremely messy.”

Merlin discovers that he is actually _speechless_. He tries to fit this new information into his head, but his brain keeps screaming _does not compute_. Arthur is _Arthur Pendragon_ , beautiful and rich and obnoxious and capable of making anything and everything want him while remaining determinedly unattached. Merlin has worked for Pendragon Industries for the last three years, he knows how it works. Arthur is Arthur and he _can’t_ possibly want Merlin the way Merlin wants _him_ ; it’s all adrenalin and fear, that’s all it’s ever been.

“Um,” he says weakly.

Gwen squeezes his hands tenderly. “It’s all right,” she tells him, “You don’t have to figure it all out _now_.”

They sit in silence for a moment, and Merlin says eventually: “Did I tell you I’m moving in with Gaius?”

Gwen stares at him for a moment, and then says: “No, you completely failed to mention that.”

“Well, I am,” Merlin tells her. “I think… I think after all this I need to know more about who I am. What I can do. As a teenager I used to experiment with my powers a little more, but I freaked myself out. So I’m going to get a job somewhere that isn’t Pendragon Industries – probably one that I’m hopelessly overqualified for – and then I’m going to live with Gaius for a while.”

Gwen nods, clearly understanding where he’s coming from, though she still looks upset. “This is just like Lance fucking off to Peru,” she says.

“It is,” Merlin agrees, “Except that I’m not fucking off to Peru, I’m fucking off to Kensington, and I’ll be around all the time. In fact, I’ll probably be around so much that you’ll end up saying to me: ‘Merlin, I wish you _had_ fucked off to Peru so I can get some peace and quiet’.”

After a moment, Gwen manages a feeble smile. “You _do_ realise you’re just fucking off to Kensington in an attempt to avoid Arthur, don’t you?”

“A little bit,” Merlin shrugs, “But it is mostly so I can be horribly pretentious and _find myself_ , you know?”

Gwen nods. “I get it,” she tells him. Then she fixes him with one of her steely gazes that are impossible to escape from. “But you _will_ sort out whatever you’re doing or not doing with Arthur, because he is, underneath it all, a _good man_ , and if you’re going to break his heart then you are to do it gently, neatly, cleanly, and _soon_ , do you understand?”

“I do,” Merlin says. 

Before he can say anything else, however, Gaius comes out to yell at them and drag Merlin back indoors.

^

Arthur’s first day back at work is pretty _shit_. He arrives to find that Galahad has _run off to Costa Rica_ with someone who, according to all reports, looks a hell of a lot like Arthur. Galahad seems to be very happy and that’s all good but it does mean that Arthur _no longer has a PA_ , which is not exactly helpful. Morgana doesn’t come by for lunch for obvious reasons – she’s spending the day at home with Gwen, presumably doing yet more redecorating and reorganising; Arthur’s trying not to get involved – and his father alternates between being borderline affectionate and being angry about Arthur’s prolonged absence. Various employees keep staring at his broken nose in various states of amusement and devastation, and by the end of the day Arthur is _completely_ worn out and in a fairly bad mood.

His mood does not improve any when he gets to the hospital to find that Merlin has been discharged. It gets worse when he tracks Gaius down to find that the older man hasn’t authorised Merlin’s discharge yet, which means Merlin took it upon himself to leave. Arthur immediately calls Gaius’ home number and no one picks up, and so he consigns himself to driving to Kensington.

On the off-chance Merlin has gone somewhere else, Arthur plugs his phone into the hands-free and starts ringing around. Hunith reports that Merlin hasn’t come to _her_ house, though she doesn’t sound overly perturbed and Arthur decides not to tell her that her bloody son has gone AWOL. Morgana isn’t at home when he calls her, but when he gets through on her mobile she shouts over the sound of people around her that Merlin wasn’t at the flat when she and Gwen left it half an hour ago. Ten minutes later, when Arthur calls her again, a recorded network message informs him that Morgana has gone out of range, and he gets the same reply when he tries to contact Gwen.

If they’re out of range, it means they’ve gone somewhere without any signal, such as… such as _underground_. Arthur smiles in spite of himself, and wonders what Morgana will make of the Dragon.

Gaius’ home is empty and locked when Arthur finally gets to it, and he’s halfway frantic when he gets back to his car. Merlin’s phone is off, Morgana and Gwen are still out of range, Gaius has no idea where Merlin is, and he can’t risk ringing Hunith again because he doesn’t want to worry her. Arthur drives home, for lack of anything else to do, and is _this close_ to calling the police by the time he arrives at his front door.

Merlin is sitting on the sofa in his living room.

“You got rid of the coffee table books,” he says, sounding disappointed. “I’ve been sitting here for about an hour and I’ve had nothing at all to look at.”

Arthur refuses to be distracted by Merlin’s far too charming inanity. “Where the _fuck_ have you been?” he demands.

“Here,” Merlin shrugs. “I mean, I got to Gaius’ and I realised I still needed my stuff, so I came here and Gwen and Morgana have gone somewhere, so I thought I’d wait for you.”

“You discharged yourself from hospital and went missing,” Arthur shouts, and he knows he should calm down but he was _so scared_ and Merlin sitting there looking wronged is not helping at _all_. “Didn’t you think that maybe you should _tell someone_ where you were going?”

“I’m a grown man,” Merlin says, an edge appearing in his voice, “I don’t need to tell anyone where I’m going.”

“You’ve been in hospital for over a week,” Arthur snaps, “Do you have any idea how worried I was?”

“Very?” Merlin suggests. “Look, I’m sorry, but really Arthur, I’m fine. Really fine. Good as new.” He gets to his feet. “See?”

He attempts to spin around, loses his balance, and Arthur is at his side to catch him before he breaks his nose on the coffee table, because he doesn’t think the two of them having matching broken noses would be at _all_ good. Merlin smiles up at him, and Arthur is still clutching his elbows. Very carefully, as though he’s considering the action, Merlin shifts and curls his hands around Arthur’s upper arms.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and the name shivers a little in his mouth, “I’ve been an idiot. And you’ve been an idiot. And, well, lots of people have been idiots, but most of them are dead now.”

“Right,” Merlin says, sounding amused. “Are you going somewhere with this?”

“You’re an _idiot_ ,” Arthur says forcibly, and shakes him a little, just to prove his point.

“All right.” A smile is starting to unfurl across Merlin’s mouth; one of his broad ones that make him look mad and shouldn’t be nearly as attractive as they are. “Arthur, you can let go of me now.”

“I can,” Arthur agrees, but doesn’t. 

And Merlin is smiling at him, face pale but cheeks slightly flushed, and he doesn’t look particularly well but he doesn’t look half-dead any more either, and Arthur is gazing back at him, and it’s all getting weirdly intense and deep. There’s a look on Merlin’s face that Arthur hasn’t ever seen before.

“I know I don’t look my best,” he says, “But you try living in a hospital for a week for some unconscious prat of a friend and see if you look any better.”

Merlin laughs, looking away, breaking their connection. 

“You know,” he says lightly, “‘Not speaking’ would be a really good look for you.” He smiles; that crooked, slightly insane grin that really shouldn’t be as pretty as it is. “We were having a _perfect moment_ there, and you still felt the need to _ruin_ it with _words_.”

“Me?” Arthur demands. “I’m not the one who-”

But Merlin kisses him; at first tentatively, and then not tentatively at _all_ , and it turns out that the _perfect moment_ is just about salvageable anyway.


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Morgana knows something Arthur doesn’t; or thinks she does, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this after the main fic, because it was an idea I was playing with; I never decided if it was officially part of the canon, so if you hate what happens, you can ignore it!

**Three Months Later**

_Something I wasn’t sure of_  
But I was in the middle of.  
\- Keane

 

Morgana has been waiting for this in the sense that _something_ has been niggling away in the back of her mind; her subconscious trying to remind her that she knows _everything_ that’s ever going to happen to her, or near enough, if only she hadn’t forgotten all of it. However, since she no longer has visions – just _dreams_ , which are still fucking scary and disturbing, no matter what anyone else may say – she doesn’t really know what this _is_ until it’s a little too late.

It’s a Wednesday evening; they’ve received their fifth postcard from Lance, still full of annoying cryptic messages that are affectionate but unhelpful – even Saint Gwen is starting to lose patience – and still without an expected date for his return. The postcard is dated almost a week ago, from somewhere in Peru. Morgana has had it read to her eight times, enough to memorise the message, and she’s getting annoyed with him and his bloody need to _find himself_ or whatever the hell he thinks he’s trying to do.

Arthur is doing paperwork of some kind on the sofa; she can hear him rustling pieces of paper and repeatedly clicking the top of his Parker biro in a way that’s getting steadily more irritating. Merlin has taken Gwen out for coffee in a _we no longer live together but that doesn’t mean we can’t spend huge amounts of time together anyway_ kind of way, and Arthur is endeavouring not to be possessive and jealous in an entirely obvious and hilarious way. He used to be like this about Lance, so even though Morgana can’t see his pouting expression, she knows what it looks like anyway.

In the peaceful silence, Arthur sighs heavily and loudly and obnoxiously. He’s been doing this every five minutes, and it is slowly but surely driving Morgana _insane_.

“If you do that one more time I will hurt you,” Morgana warns idly. 

She can _hear_ Arthur rolling his eyes.

“I may not be able to see you,” Morgana says carefully, “But I do _know_ you, Arthur.”

“Right,” he murmurs; it sounds like he’s trying to sound neutral, but it comes out more sheepish. Then he coughs and says: “Not that I have any idea what you’re talking about, of course.”

“Of course,” Morgana agrees, rolling her eyes in return.

This is _better_. For about the first month after… well, after _everything_ , Arthur was too careful around Morgana. She didn’t blame him, but she quickly tired of being treated like an _invalid_ all the time. It’s taking time, and she’s still adjusting of course, but at least they’re back to niggling at each other, back to whatever resembles _normal_ for them.

She listens to Arthur huffily return to his paperwork, and twines a lock of hair around her fingers a few times. She’s getting the hang of Braille, of turning on the audio description function on DVDs, of all the things that _becoming randomly blind_ has suddenly made necessary, but there are still times when she finds herself a little at a loss. Not that she isn’t grateful to be _alive_ ; not being mad or dead makes a lot of things _worth it_.

“Don’t think I don’t know you’re staring at me,” she says after a moment. “I can’t see your expression, so I don’t know what you’re doing, but you _are_ staring at me, Arthur. What is it?”

Arthur is silent for a long moment, before beginning: “You’ve never told me about your father, you know.”

Morgana is still getting used to being taken by surprise; surprises are a new and exciting thing to her. 

“Well,” she replies, lashing out without really thinking, “You’ve _certainly_ talked about _your_ father enough for the both of us.”

Something hits her in the face; after a moment she establishes it’s a cushion. She throws it back in Arthur’s general direction, and hears the _whumph_ of a direct hit.

“You missed,” he singsongs.

Morgana grits her teeth.

Arthur persists: “What if we get into another ridiculous situation with murderous people and you die and I _still_ don’t know anything about your father and it drives me mad with _not knowing_ for ever and ever and ever?”

Morgana frowns. “Just how long are you planning to _live_?”

“Oh, forever,” Arthur says nonchalantly, and she pictures a casual hand gesture to go with it. “Anyway, you’re attempting to distract me, and you’re not doing it very well.”

“You’re just needling me because you can’t cope with the fact Merlin wants to spend time with people _other than you_ ,” Morgana tells him.

“Your shoes don’t match,” Arthur snipes.

Morgana swallows down a smile. “Yes they _do_ ,” she tells him. “Anyway, why the sudden curiosity?”

“I’m just wondering where you got your super magical powers from,” Arthur tells her. “I mean, your mother was nice but I don’t remember her having weird unnatural abilities, and then I thought about it and realised that you haven’t told me anything about your father _ever_ except that he’s dead.”

“That was kind of all the information you needed,” Morgana shrugs, and is disappointed by how _blatantly evasive_ she’s being. 

“I know way too much about you,” Arthur reminds her. “But I don’t know _anything_ about your father. I mean, was he French? Irish? You look like your mother, but you don’t have her nose; do you have his?”

“My mother didn’t have _her_ nose,” Morgana replies. “Her nose was the work of a plastic surgeon.”

“Oh,” Arthur says. He’s silent for a long moment. “Were those her real-”

“Yes, they were, not that it’s any of your business,” Morgana replies snippily. “Want to ask any more inappropriate questions about my mother’s anatomy?”

Arthur is silent for a while. “Go _on_ ,” he whines. 

Gwen and Merlin are likely to be out for at least another hour, and Arthur will have no qualms about annoying her for as long as it takes, so Morgana obediently crumbles.

“I don’t have a lot of details,” she says. “He died when I was eight, and my mother didn’t exactly talk about him a lot.”

She can hear Arthur moving, and a moment later he comes and squeezes in next to her in the big, squashy armchair.

“When he was younger, my father was rich and pretty and would shag anything that would have him,” Morgana says, when Arthur has stopped shifting about and elbowing her in her ribs. “Bit like you used to be, actually.”

“Hey-” Arthur begins indignantly.

“You had an orgy in here for your twenty-second birthday,” Morgana reminds him.

“I did _not_.”

“There were four of you. I had to make coffee for you all in the morning. Four is enough for a mini orgy, at least.” Morgana can’t stop a smirk from stealing across her face.

“Could you _not_?” Arthur groans, burying his face in her shoulder.

Morgana obediently lets the subject drop. “Anyway, he wasn’t really in a relationship with my mother when he got her pregnant; _unlike_ you, he didn’t have someone like me to keep an eye on him and prevent him from knocking up poor innocent women.”

Arthur wisely chooses not to say anything; he sits up a little, clearly waiting for the rest.

“He left Ireland before she even knew she was pregnant and my mother didn’t see him again for the next two years. Then he turned up again, saying he was more _emotionally mature_ , and wanted to give it a go. So they got married and lived perfectly happily together for the next six years before he died of some kind of pre-existing heart condition that, _no_ , I _haven’t_ inherited, before you start panicking.”

Arthur is thoughtfully silent for a moment, before saying: “And where did you fit into all this?”

Morgana shrugs. “I was the lovechild, mother came into a lot of money when she married into the Le Fay family; I was raised largely by a succession of increasingly afraid au pairs who all quit within six months.”

“Were you badly behaved?” Arthur asks.

“A little,” Morgana replies. “But mostly, they were just scared of me. You know how creepy I was; picture a little tiny me being that creepy.”

She feels Arthur shudder.

“What did he look like?” Arthur asks curiously. “Ridiculously tall Frenchman?”

“His grandfather was French,” Morgana corrects him. “He was handsome though; black hair and the bluest eyes.”

“Bit like Merlin,” Arthur remarks.

“Not _everything_ is about your _boyfriend_ ,” Morgana teases, before realising the path they’re on. Arthur may not know yet, but _she_ does, and it’s already too late to back away.

“Was your father freaky and unnatural?” Arthur asks.

“I’m not sure,” Morgana replies. “I don’t remember him ever going: _hey, Morgana, here’s my weird power_ , but…” She sighs, thinks through her words. “He liked gardening,” she says. “We had a huge house in Ireland, big gardens, and I use to like going out with him when he tended to the flowers.” She sighs. “None of them ever died, you know? We’d plant them one afternoon and the next day they’d be grown and beautiful. It took me ages to find out that plants actually take _time_ to grow.”

Arthur has gone very, very quiet. Morgana elbows him.

“Arthur, you have to _say_ things. I can’t read your facial expressions any more and it’s disconcerting when you’re just sitting there.”

“I’m just doing some calculations,” Arthur tells her, and at that moment Morgana realises he’s figured it out.

“Yes,” she sighs, “I did some digging around. My father was married to _someone else_ when my mother got pregnant.”

Arthur is quiet for another long moment. “Morgana,” he begins, “Have you ever considered the possibility that Merlin is-”

“The Dragon told me,” Morgana interrupts him. “But I think I knew already. I think I always knew.”

“I don’t trust the Dragon,” Arthur mutters.

“Neither do I,” Morgana replies. “Which is why I got you to help me track down those photo albums last month and I took them to Gaius, who confirmed everything.” She sighs. “The Dragon might be, well, a _dragon_ , but it wasn’t lying.”

Arthur sighs pointedly, but doesn’t say anything.

“You might as well come out and say it,” Morgana says.

“I wish you wouldn’t _keep_ going down there,” Arthur tells her.

“It’s all right,” Morgana says. “I know that the Dragon has been living in the underground for nearly a hundred and fifty years; I know that it is bored and dangerous and desperate to escape. And it’s ok; I wouldn’t be stupid enough to help it even if I could.”

Arthur squeezes her hand and Morgana squeezes back. “All right,” he concedes at last. There’s another pause. “So, basically, you’ve known _for months_ that Merlin is-”

This time, he’s interrupted by the door buzzer, indicating there’s someone downstairs wanting to get in. Arthur goes to answer it, leaving Morgana feeling a little dizzy, though she’s not sure why.

“Who was it?” she asks, when Arthur gets back.

“Someone who wanted the people below us,” he replies easily. “So, Morgana…” He sighs. “Actually, _fuck_ it. I know, and you know, and… does Merlin know?”

“Not as far as I know,” Morgana shrugs.

“But Gaius knows,” Arthur says. “So he’ll tell Merlin.”

“He might not,” Morgana reminds him. “Anyway, it’s fine. Merlin doesn’t _need_ to know; nothing _needs_ to change.”

“Are you sure?” Arthur sounds sceptical.

“Not really,” Morgana responds. “I suppose you’ll just have to get married, then we can all be related by _law_ and that’ll be good enough.”

The choking noise Arthur makes is enough to make Morgana _wish_ she could see his facial expression.

There’s a knocking at their front door.

“Wrong buzzer, Arthur?” she asks faux-sweetly, but he’s already leaving the room. Morgana stays in her chair, scowling deeply because she never feels more helpless than when Arthur is _lying_ to her, and listens to more than one person walk back into the room.

“I suppose you think you’re fucking clever-” she begins, but trails off as someone who decidedly _isn’t_ Arthur wraps their arms around her.

“I’ve missed you,” Lance says quietly.

“You are a _bastard_ ,” Morgana informs him, and: “Gwen is going to _kill you_.”

She hugs him back anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incidentally, there is a brilliant and breathtakingly long podfic of this story archived [here](http://www.audiofic.jinjurly.com/were-storm-in-somebody-elses-teacup), if that's more your jam.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] We're A Storm In Somebody Else's Teacup](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11294736) by [Twilight_Angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twilight_Angel/pseuds/Twilight_Angel)




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